Place Beyond The Sun
by Hel-Lokisdotter
Summary: What if the third door had not led to Jack Mort at all, but to another? A man as cynical, battle-hardened, and ruthless as Roland himself - what if it had led to John Constantine? Hellblazer/Dark Tower crossover, spanning most of the DT series. ABANDONED.
1. Last Standing Man

**Disclaimer:** Neither of the stories drawn on in this fic are mine. Constantine:Hellblazer belongs to DC/Vertigo Comics, and the Dark Tower series belongs to Stephen King. I am only responsible for my burning desire to mash the two together in an entirely uncanonical way.  
And I'm a poor student, so if anyone feels the need to sue for all my wordly possessions, please be assured that you will get about a fiver out of it.

**Warnings:** Given the characters involved, anybody who has read Hellblazer will not be surprised to learn that there is much bad language. Beyond that, I think it's pretty much worksafe stuff, but anyone who takes issue with swearing might want to avoid this fic like the plague.  
Also, as this will hopefully stretch all the way to the end of the Dark Tower series, and is set in the present-day in terms of Hellblazer, there may well be spoilers for both.

**A/N:** This is the first story I've posted on this site, so if I've gone wrong, please tell me. Also, I've never been to New York, so my knowledge of its geography is pretty shaky. I can take criticism, as long as it's constructive - in fact, I thrive on it.  
Also, this will be long. Given that I'm in my GCSE year right now, it will also be updated sporadically at best. Bear that in mind.  
Beta'd by gkingsley on LiveJournal.

**1**

He was running down the pavement – the _sidewalk_ – in a strange city, chasing a demon that had just single-handedly torn apart an entire block of New York flats, or were they apartments, and there was somebody else in his head.

It was rather a worrying thing, he thought wearily, that it was only the last of these that took him by surprise.

Enough by surprise, in fact, that he stopped dead, just for a moment. The demon vanished around a corner, out of sight in a crowded street, and he simply had to take a moment to admire the blasé attitude of these New Yorkers. If this was London, they'd be screaming and running for the hills.

He gave this thought the consideration it deserved – which wasn't much – counted to ten, and _then_ swore. Loudly, fluently, and angrily.

Heads barely turned. Bloody hell.

Sighing, he reached into the breast pocket of his dun trenchcoat, pulled out a packet of Silk Cuts, and leant back against the nearest wall. He stuck a cigarette in his mouth, lit it, and watched the end smoulder orange in the bright sunlight of a New York day for a moment. Then, exhaling slowly, he shoved his hand into his pocket and wandered into the shadow of a shop doorway, the building dark and empty.

"All right," he said out loud, taking another drag of his cigarette. "Who the fuck are you, and why are you in my mind?"

**2**

Roland of Gilead was very far from amused. This man, whoever he was – this man whose mind he was travelling in – was clearly not amused by the intrusion, either, and no doubt with good reason. But Roland had good reason, too, he considered.

He had left Eddie on the beach, to go through this door – this door that should have been marked _Death_, was instead marked _The Last Standing Man_ – expecting… what, exactly? He wasn't sure, but he knew what he _hadn't_ expected. He hadn't expected the Last Standing Man to be, not standing, but running. He hadn't expected the sudden roar of blood in his ears when he dived through the door, or the desperate chase on the other side. He hadn't expected – hadn't _dared_ to expect – that the Last Standing Man would already be armed.

Most of all, though, he hadn't expected the Last Standing Man to know he was there.

He was exhausted. Sick. Hungry and thirsty. He had left Eddie Dean on the beach behind him, to the mercies of Detta Walker – and he doubted they would be tender. The grim humour in the Last Man's voice did not amuse him.

It did give him a certain hope, though. A man who was that sensitive to his presence would either be hugely useful – or hugely problematic. At least he wasn't panicking.

_My name is Roland. Roland Deschain, of Gilead_, he answered, when his thoughts were sufficiently pulled together. _I need astin. Shells, food, but mostly astin._ Mentally, he grimaced, remembering the way the red lines had moved up his arm, and the throbbing, pulsing pain of his missing fingers. There was something else, as well. What had they been called? The pills that Eddie had taken from Balazar's bathroom cabinet, those miraculous capsules that had made the poisoning recede and the fever fall back…

_Cheflet_, he said, shortly, in the Last Man's head. _I need _cheflet_, too._

"Look, mate," the Last Man said out loud, taking a puff of the curious white stick in his mouth – Roland thought for a moment that it might be devilgrass, but the man's mind was too clear for that – and exhaling a mouthful of smoke, "I don't know what the fuck Cheflet is – sounds like a brand name or something – and I think you mean aspirin, not astin, but that's beside the point." His accent was unlike anything Roland had ever heard before – nothing like Eddie's, or Odetta's, or even Detta Walker's. If anything, it most closely resembled the gunslinger's own, but even that didn't quite cut it as a description.

"Point _is_," the Last Man went on, a little tautly, "you just lost me what could well be my one chance at taking that bloody demon down. I've chased it halfway across the world, trying to catch the bugger, and now it's gone. Where the fuck do I go now? Darkest fucking Africa? The food here's shit, the drink's bloody expensive, and I want to catch the first plane home I can, all right?" Stubbing out the glowing end of the white stick on the doorframe, he straightened up. "So, okay, say I take you at your word, and you're _not_ some sort of demon, and I _can_ trust you. I'll tell you this for piss all, Roland Deschain of Gilead, I've got fuck all reason to _like _you."

Roland looked out through the Last Man's eyes on a New York that seemed a distant impossibility, even after the wonders he had seen in Eddie's New York. Surely, then, the food must have gotten worse, he thought – nobody could call the tooter fish he had eaten before 'shit'.

_Keep your mind where your mind should be, maggot!_ Cort's voice snapped at him, in his head. Roland sighed.

_I'm not asking you to like me_, he told the Last Man firmly_. I need shells, food, astin, _cheflet_. If you do not help me, then I can help myself._

And then he _came forwards_.

**3**

The first thing he was aware of was the sheer resistance he encountered. With Eddie, and even Detta, he had simply been able to take control. But the Last Man _fought_, fought tooth and nail, and Roland suddenly encountered the worrying notion that, maybe, the Last Man might fight more strongly than he could deal with. And perhaps he _could_ take control, if he pushed himself. But he needed the Last Man on his side, at least for now.

He went back again, more than a little worried. Both he and the Last Man were breathing heavily, but the Last Man seemed in rather worse state. Doubling over, he coughed, hacking and phlegmatic. Of course, Roland realised, he had no idea how long the man had been running – he was no doubt still exhausted from that.

"What the fuck was that?" the Last Man ground out eventually, straightening up and pulling another white stick out of his pocket. Roland, more than a little shaken, did not answer.

"Look, just tell me what 'cheflet' is," the Last Man suggested, reaching into a different pocket and pulling out a little, brightly-coloured box, half-transparent and filled with some sort of clear liquid. Pressing down on a little wheel on it with his thumb, he cursed, shook it, and then pressed down on the wheel again. Roland was astonished to see a little flame pop into life on the corner of the box, but the Last Man seemed entirely unfazed by it.

Lifting it to his mouth, he lit the end of the white stick, took a deep breath of the resulting smoke, and tucked the little fire-box back into his pocket. "Tell me what cheflet is – or what it does, anyway – and I'll see if I can get you some. Aspirin shouldn't be difficult. And shells… Do you mean bullets? 'Cause shells are what they used in World War One, to drop on people. If you mean _bullets_, yeah, I reckon I can find some. Somehow."

_Bullets?_ Roland repeated, slowly. _My shells are wet – I need some I can rely on. Are bullets what they call shells in your land? For guns?_

"Shure are, pardner," the Last Man drawled, his voice a little less unfriendly, but still untrusting. Roland could place this accent a little better, the one that the Last Man was putting on – it reminded him of the people of Mejis, only this accent was stronger, drawling, and clearly mocking.

_Then, yes,_ Roland said, when the Last Man didn't say anything more.

"Hm. The cheflet?"

_I don't know,_ the gunslinger confessed. _All I know is, my blood was poisoned, and when I took the _cheflet_, the poison went away. Ed…_

He had been going to say _Eddie knows_, but his caution checked him mid-word, a split-second too early, a split-second too late. Better not to let this stranger know what was going on, not everything, anyway. Unfortunately, the Last Man was obviously rather sharper than either of the others whose mind Roland has ridden in – his mind was not clogged by the strange devilgrass-stuff, as Eddie's had been, and Roland did not have the advantage of shock, as he did with Odetta/Detta – and he picked up on the hesitation. At least, from the irritated little noise the man made, Roland was fairly sure he had.

All he _said_, though, inside or outside his head, was "So, must be an antibiotic of some sort, I'm guessing? Right. Should be easy to get hold of. And food's the easiest of all, of course. Now you come to mention it, I'm fucking starving. If I eat, does it make things any better for you?"

_If you buy some food,_ Roland suggested, testing the waters, _I can take it back with me, and come back. I've done it before_.

"Hm… Nah." The Last Man shrugged, huffing out a cloud of smoke and turning up the collar of his long coat. "Know why? 'Cause I don't trust you. I'll get you antibiotics, aspirin. Maybe bullets, if you'll be honest for a minute. But until I know what the deal is here, I'm not trusting you an inch. Got it?"

Roland was torn between irritation and a certain grudging respect. This man was a gunslinger, for certain – but one in whom Roland saw rather too much of himself. Such a clash of spirits was bound to grind.

"I'll get something to eat, then," the Last Man said after a moment. "Make a few calls. Get in some favours – I can probably have some shells by this evening. And then you can tell me what in the name of blue fuck is going on, all right?"

_Yes,_ Roland agreed reluctantly. After all, what was the choice?

**4**

With a plateful of slightly suspicious pasta in front of him and a glass of beer in one hand, John regarded the New York street with a sinking heart. The demon could be anywhere. Anywhere at all. And there was some bastard in his head, talking like an archaic John Wayne.

Shit. Some days just didn't go right, did they?

Pulling his phone out, he punched in a number without looking, still picking at his tagliatelle without actually eating any of it. "Chas?"

"What do you want, you fucker?"

John smiled thinly. Always the same old Chas. Christ, he'd screwed up there.

"Chas, what do you know about possession?"

"I know it's six AM over here, that's what I know. Piss off, you wanker. I'm trying to sleep."

Shit again. Bloody time difference. He always forgot the bloody time difference.

"Chas…"

"John. Fuck off." The line went dead, and John threw the phone down on the table, cursing at the top of his voice.

_I'm not possessing you,_ the voice in his head – Roland, it had called itself – said.

"Like fuck you're not," he muttered. "If you're not, then get the fuck out of my head. Fucker," he added, for good measure.

_I can't. If I do, I'll be dead in five minutes. There's this… this woman. Detta Walker. And when I left, I was collapsing. I need food. I need astin. I need cheflet._

"All right! All right! I'll get your bloody _cheflet_ stuff!"

_Thankee-sai_, said Roland's voice in his head.

"Thankee what-now?" John shook his head, gulping down a mouthful of beer and tapping out his cigarette on the slightly sticky tabletop. "Mate, you make no sense."

Roland said nothing. Shrugging, John took a mouthful of pasta and almost spat it out again. "Bloody hell! Tastes like _shit_!"

Roland continued to say nothing. John snorted. "Cheerful bastard, aren't you?" he commented dryly, and picked up his phone again. "Christ, I thought _I_ was a grumpy old sod. Hey, Harry… yeah, 's me. You're a native, what the fuck's cheflet?" He frowned, kicking his feet up onto the chair opposite and running a hand through his hair. "No, I'm fairly sure that's what he said. Keflex? Really? The fuck is that? No, no, it makes plenty of sense. None of your business. Because I need to find some, that's why. No, still none of your business. No. No." Pausing for a swig of beer, he frowned. "Yeah, bloody thing got away. Keep an eye out, willya? Right. No, I know that. Whatever you say, you hand-waving ritualistic fuck. Heh, _sure_ you're not. Fuck you. Thanks." Flicking the phone shut, he took another mouthful of pasta, washing it down quickly. "Huh. Bloody Americans," he muttered disdainfully, shoving the pasta away and finishing his drink. "A drugstore's a chemist, right? Roland?"

The gunslinger said nothing.

"Fat lot of good you are," John grumbled, shoving his chair under the table and slamming a handful of coins on the till, not checking what they were worth. "Keep the change."

"There isn't any…" the woman behind the counter started angrily, counting out the money into the till, but John was already out of the door and well on his way down the street.

The last she saw of him was his disappearing back, vanishing down the crowded street as he argued with himself.

**5**

"So, tell me," the Last Man – John, that was his name – said, as he strode down the street with his hands in his pockets and his head down, "what's going on? Where the fuck's Gilead, for a start?"

_Nowhere,_ Roland said, a little stiffly. _It's complicated. All you need to know is_…

"I'll decide what I need to know, thanks," John said, cutting him off. "Why are you in my head?"

_I told you,_ Roland replied cagily_, because I need…_

"Food, shells, astin and cheflet – Keflex, even. I know, I know. That's bloody useless, isn't it? You think about it while I give Midnite a ring, all right? Christ," he added, although Roland didn't think it was aimed at him, "how many fucking calls do I have to make for this bullshit? I'm not made of money, you know." He flicked open the talking box that he had been using to talk to the man called Chas, and while he was distracted, Roland seized the opportunity to _come forward_ again. Not far, just enough to make John's head turn, to check, quickly, that the door was still there.

It was still there. It was still open. And Roland caught a brief, brief glimpse of what lay beyond, before John seized control, forcing their gaze forward again.

_What the fuck are you trying to do_? he demanded silently of Roland. _What the _fuck _was that?_

But then a man's voice was speaking into John's ear, distracting him, and for the moment, the gunslinger was saved from having to reply.

**6**

"Penicillin?" the drugstore clerk asked, raising an eyebrow.

John nodded. "Penicillin. Keflex, specifically – it is Keflex, right? I'm a stranger around here."

"Clearly," the clerk muttered under his breath. "How much?"

John shrugged. _Roland_! he called, inside his head. _Roland, how much do you need? Give or take?_

The gunslinger didn't answer. He was in shock.

_This place… This place…_

It was full of people. Normal people, or at least they looked like normal people. A normal shop, or at least it looked like a normal shop. And a normal man behind the counter.

This was nothing like what he had expected. Nothing at all.

No dark, cavernous rooms. No twisting smoke. No glass phials and bubbling liquids. Certainly no man in flowing robes, as he had expected. The place was filled to the brim with astonishing goods – goods that Roland could see no real use for; stuffs to turn your teeth white or your skin dark, to make you lose hair or grow it, to remove blemishes, to change your looks, to keep them the same… It was a place where quack remedies shared a shelf with wonders he would never even have thought of – the only thing he recognised on sight was the astin that stocked a good half of a shelf, and the rest was seen from the corner of his eye, left to sink in later.

The whole place was brightly-lit, with long, white lamps that stretched all across the ceiling. In one corner, there was a curved mirror, in which Roland could just make out the long trenchcoat and messy blonde hair of the Last Standing Man. Around him, men and women bustled to and fro, eyes on the shelves, as though these remedies meant something. Roland wondered vaguely who would be fool enough to buy such quack remedies, but only briefly.

"What do you mean, I can't buy it?" John demanded, dragging the gunslinger out of his thoughts at last. "It's on prescription, right? How the fuck am I supposed to have a prescription you'll take? I only arrived in the damn country last night!"

"Sorry," the man behind the counter said. Both Roland and John could easily hear the insincerity in his voice. "I can't give you Keflex without a prescription."

"Sod you," John replied, shoving two fingers in front of the man's face. Roland didn't understand the gesture, but he was fairly sure it wasn't a wish for long life and good fortune. "You could have a little fucking charity."

"Are you buying the aspirin, or not?" the clerk asked mildly, tapping the little collection of aspirin bottles on the counter. "If so, that'll be eight dollars fifty, please."

"Go fuck yourself," John advised, turning on his heel and striding out. Behind him, the clerk, who was obviously in a fairly good humour, called after him, "Have a nice day!"

_Well… _Roland said, sighing. _Can we not get the cheflet? You have to. John, you have to!_

"You keep on saying that. You have yet to prove anything of the sort," John said, turning a corner and starting down the next street. "And you don't get to call me John, by the way. My friends call me John. Such as they are. _You_ can call me Constantine, all right? At least until you've proved I can trust you as far as I can throw you. Then you can call me Bilbo fucking Baggins if you want."

_I do not understand_.

"Nah, didn't think you would." John – no, Constantine – shrugged, peering down one street, then the other. "Fuck. I need a map of this place," he muttered, turning the corner after a long moment of contemplation. "Right. I reckon I know how to get a Keflex prescription, and aspirin isn't restricted. Not even here," he added darkly, making the gunslinger think that maybe this city was less free than, perhaps, it appeared. He could not feel any great force on it, as had settled over Gilead in the last days, but then, not all evil was so obvious.

_Constantine?_ he asked cautiously after a moment, as they strode through the massive glass doors – unlike anything Roland had ever seen – above which was written in Great Letters the word 'HOTEL'.

"That's my name. What is it now? Decided to tell me what's going on yet?"

_Maybe. Later. Listen, Constantine, I need you to…_

"Hurry? Work harder? Give a shit?"

_The first one,_ Roland said, his voice entirely devoid of humour. _I left my… my companion back in my own world. With Detta Walker, I think. If he falls asleep…_

"You _think_? What the bloody hellfire? You _think_ he's with… Detta, didja say? Don't you know?"

The gunslinger hesitated. _It is… complicated._

"Most things are," Constantine replied with a shrug, flicking the smouldering remains of the white stick out of the doors again and grinding it into the ground with his heel. Striding back in, he wandered over to the receptionist, tapping his knuckles on the desk. "Any calls for me? Name's Constantine. John Constantine."

The plump woman sitting behind the desk, her feet on a pile of files, looked over boredly and shook her head, then went back to painting her fingernails with something crimson and sharp-smelling. "Not a thing, hon," she mumbled into her chest, intent on the tiny, crimson-clotted brush she was using.

"Isn't it _nice_ to be popular?" Constantine commented dryly to empty air, shoving his hands back into his pockets. Roland said nothing.

The gunslinger and the Last Standing Man strode down a long, empty-smelling corridor, white and clinical, in total silence.

**7**

"So…" he said, tearing a piece of paper off the complementary notepad on the desk. "Ready to tell me what the fuck's going on?"

Roland paused, hesitating for a heartbeat. Through Constantine's eyes, he could see the strange clear tube, which Constantine's unconscious mind – the gunslinger had been rifling through it for a while, fascinated by how easy it was to access – identified as a 'biro', scratching over the thin, obviously cheap paper – although, by the standards of his own lands, any paper here was cheap, judging from the way that people tossed it away as though it was nothing precious at all. The handwriting was scraggly at best, but it was written in Great Letters, and by concentrating, Roland could just about tell what it said: _THIS IS A… _and then another word which he couldn't read, but which Constantine's mind informed him was _PRESCRIPTION_.

_I don't think that will work_, he muttered, not meaning for Constantine to hear. But the man whose mind he rode in was sharp, as he had seen from the beginning, and he heard it.

"Oh, trust me," he said, and in the speckled mirror in the wall opposite, Roland saw a smile that was far from reassuring. "It'll work. So, like I was saying, ready to tell me what the fuck's going on?"

_I'll do better than tell you,_ Roland said simply. _I'll show you_.

"Show me what?"

_You have to let me _come forward_ first. Then I can show you._

Constantine laughed, low and grating. "Fuck, Roland. You expect me to fall for that? What do you take me for?"

_Cort would love you_, Roland grumbled, and realised as he said it that it was true. This Constantine could almost have _been_ Cort, if he weren't so light-hearted.

"Cort?"

_My old teacher. Constantine, I do not know this city. I do not know any of it. It would serve me little to throw myself into this world without an ally. Let me _come forward_ for a moment – just a moment – and show you what I mean._

"I'm going to regret this, aren't I?" Constantine grumbled, folding up the paper and shoving it into his pocket. "If you move one inch, one fucking _inch_ out of this room with my body, I swear…" He didn't finish. He didn't have to. Both the gunslinger and the Last Man knew the consequences would not be pleasant – for either of them.

_Thankee-sai_.

"There you go again, with your 'thankee-sai'," Constantine muttered aloud, standing up with his hands in his pockets. "Come on then, let's get this show on the road. Show me what you need to, then get the hell out." Without waiting for confirmation or denial, he simply _let go_.

It was, he considered, a very strange feeling not to be in control of your own body. It wasn't the first time he had been posessed, of course. But it was still strange, every time. And it reminded him uncomfortably of the _other_ times, none of which had ended well.

_What did you want to show me, then? _he demanded tautly of Roland, noticing, out of the corner of his eye, that the reflection in the mirror had changed, subtly but still definitely; where his eyes had been a dull steel-grey, now they were bright, icy blue, clearer than any he had seen before.

"Not much," the gunslinger said, in Constantine's own voice. "Just this." Then, without any further preamble, he turned Constantine's head to look back over his shoulder.

For a moment, the Last Man was resolutely, horrifically silent, and Roland almost feared that Constantine had gone into as much shock as he himself had when walking into the (drugstore/chemist/alchemist's) before. Then there was a low, impressed whistle, coming from inside his head.

_Bloody hell_, Constantine thought at him. Then, as they both began to adjust a little to the sudden appearance of a door, floating a few feet behind them, he added, _Is that Ed_?

Roland nodded. "Eddie Dean," he said, then squinted. _Eddie!_ It burst out of him without meaning it to, angry and violent. _Eddie Dean, you stupid bastard!_

_He fell asleep? _Constantine put in, somewhere between resignation and amusement.

_He fell asleep,_ Roland replied. _And that __is_ definitely_ Detta Walker. _A sudden, overwhelming sense of horror filled him as he watched the legless woman haul herself over towards the sleeping Eddie, gun in hand. The feral snarl on her face was nothing that could have come from Odetta Holmes, the cultured, civil woman with whom that demon shared a body. No, that was Detta all right. Detta to the core.

_You're fucked_, Constantine summarised. Grimly amused despite himself, Roland couldn't help but agree. _Can I have my body back now?_

Roland hesitated again, unwilling to tear his eyes from the scene unfolding in front of him.

_Get out of my body,_ the Last Man repeated, shoving forwards to the front of his mind again. "Take one of my guns, if you can take stuff back through with you. Shoot the bitch."

_It's not that _simple_! _Roland replied. He had expected Constantine to disagree – the man had the look of one who cares very little – but it seemed that that façade was not much more than skin-deep. He could feel – actually _feel_ – the sympathy bubbling up inside the man, although he tried to hide it.

"Not that simple. Got it," was all Constantine said, sitting down heavily on the bed. "It's enough. You're telling the truth, anyway. Look, I gave Papa Midnite a ring – he's in Manhattan. Were you listening in on that conversation?"

_Not really_, Roland replied. It was half-true. He had not been _listening _as such, but one of the first things Cort had taught them, and punctuated for years afterwards with shouted reminders and buffets, was to work back through _everything_ your senses fed back, as quickly as possible.

He had heard the conversation, all right.

He just hadn't _understood_ it.

"Well," Constantine was saying, fumbling in his pocket for the box of white sticks, "Midnight said he can get me the ammo. But I don't know what sort you're after. What's your gun like?"

_A gun_, Roland said, blankly. _Two guns. Pistols. You saw them. Detta Walker was carrying one. Eddie has the other. Probably _had_ by now,_ he amended a little bitterly.

"I'm not a bloody arms dealer, okay? I wouldn't know what sort of bullets your gun took if they danced in front of me to Swan fucking Lake with little signs saying 'I am a bullet that fits in Roland's gun', all right?"

_I don't know how to describe them, not in a way that makes me sure of your understanding,_ Roland replied, nonplussed and more than a little irritable.

"There'll be some sort of chart somewhere, I should think. Reckon you can pick out the ones you need?"

_Probably…_ Roland replied dubiously.

"I'll ring Midnite again, ask him about it," Constantine said, nodding briefly and sticking the brown end of one of the light-sticks into his mouth. The corner of his mouth clamped around it to hold it in place, he went on, "'Til then, we can get our arses down to the nearest chemist, and get you some Keflex, some aspirin – maybe some more fags for me."

_Fags?_ asked Roland, confused. Constantine tapped the light-stick in his mouth, holding it up in front of his eyes so Roland could see it, then shoved it back into his mouth, pulled out that strange fire-box, and lit the end.

"Anywho…" he went on, straightening up and pulling open a drawer. "Like I said, I'll have them by evening. No earlier, though – fucking useless, eh? I get to a country where you can pick up a gun with your weekly shopping, and they won't sell me ammo, 'cause I'm not American enough. Apparently I'm breaking the law, carrying guns at all, but there you go. Nobody's called me out on it yet."

The _yet_ is slightly emphasised, and Roland understood. Like him, this gunslinger – and gunslinger he certainly seems to be – clearly had no desire to waste time. No doubt, he needed to catch whatever manner of beast it was he was chasing through the streets before.

_How many guns do you have with you_? he asked, not sure what to expect. One? Two? Ten?

"Four." Less than he had hoped, more than he had feared. Good. "But one of them's a water pistol. Holy water. Chas came up with the idea – bloody brilliant. I look like a proper cunt wandering round New York with a kid's water pistol in my coat, though. One fires silver bullets – you never know when it might come in handy – and one of them is a crumpled mess. Demon got hold of it in Paris – not the one I'm chasing, different demon, sidetracked me – and crumpled it up like a piece of paper. I'd throw it out, but it's fucking hard to get rid of a gun, especially one that size."

_And the fourth_? Roland, who hadn't been following much of what Constantine had said, despite his best efforts, asked.

"Oh, the fourth's normal. Powerful, but normal." Reaching into his coat, he produced a brightly-coloured object, made of what Roland guessed was the same stuff as the fire-box. It mimicked the shape of a gun, but smaller than Roland's sandalwood-handled pistols – much smaller – and with a large, bulbous protrusion on the back. Constantine unscrewed this – which was now obvious as a water tank – and wandered into the tiny room connecting with his bathroom. Ducking past the cramped shower cubicle, he reached over a slightly greying sink to turn the tap on. As he held the tank under the resulting flow of water, he frowned.

"Why are you on that beach?" he asked eventually, turning the water off abruptly. With one hand over the mouth of the tank, he ducked back out of the room, and started rummaging in the drawer again.

_I am searching for the Dark Tower_, Roland replied, a little proudly, a little sadly.

"Dunno what that is, but good luck with it. Ah, there we go!" With a triumphant noise, Constantine pulled out a little chain, with a crucifix hanging from it, and dropped it into the water, where it sank with a little splash. "Blessed by Rowan Williams himself – doubt you know who that is, but there you go. All right…" Giving the lever on the front of the toy gun a couple of cranks, he pulled the trigger experimentally. Water arched into the air, scattering over the bedcovers and splashing onto the hem of his trenchcoat in a thin jet. "Holy water. Silver bullets. Cold steel." He touched the revolver holstered at his waist, which was smaller than Roland's guns, but not by much. Digging in the drawer again, he pulled out a box and shoved it in his pocket, following it quickly with a bandolier of shells, which, unfortunately, were also smaller than Roland's. "All right. If that demon shows up, I'm sorted. Let's go."


	2. Finding The Ways

**Disclaimer:** Neither of the stories drawn on in this fic are mine. Constantine:Hellblazer belongs to DC/Vertigo Comics, and the Dark Tower series belongs to Stephen King. I am only responsible for my burning desire to mash the two together in an entirely uncanonical way.  
And I'm a poor student, so if anyone feels the need to sue for all my wordly possessions, please be assured that you will get about a fiver out of it.

**A/N:** Nobody reviewed the last chapter - now, I'm not sure, but I have a sneaking suspicion that the reason is related to the fact that it didn't, you know, actually show up in the New Stories - not for me, anyway. So here's hoping it works a bit better for this chapter. Once again, I'm not American, much less a New Yorker, so any mistakes on that front are entirely my own fault, especially as (so far) this chapter is unbeta'd. I'm just too impatient to wait. xD I'll edit it when it's back from betaing.

**1**

"_Let's go_, did I say? Clearly, what I meant was _let's stand in a human traffic jam_." Constantine glared at the packed street, which showed no signs of movement whatsoever. "Jesus fucking _Christ_, New York really is a hellhole, isn't it? And I thought _London_ was bad at rush hour!"

_I see an apothecary,_ Roland informed him, as though he had not spoken, in the same infuriatingly calm tone as he had used for the last hour. It was a tone that was really, really beginning to grate on Constantine's nerves.

"Okay, so now we're playing I-spy?" he snorted. "All right, fine. I spy, with my little eye, something beginning with L."

_What are you talking about? _The gunslinger sounded impatient.

"Just a game. Don't you have it? The answer, by the way, is Lots-and-lots-of-New-York-cunts-in-my-fucking-_way_."

The gunslinger didn't say anything, but Constantine could _feel_ the disapproval.

"Fine, fine. Just because you've got no fucking sense of humour, doesn't mean the rest of us have to live in your world. Right!" He dusted his hands together. "Apothecary! Chemist! Drugstore – you know what, fuck it, whatever it's called. On the count of three, I'm shoving my way over there. One, three, there we go." With a little grunt, he pulled his coat tighter around him, narrowed his eyes, and lunged into the crowd, elbows going here and there and everywhere.

It took him several minutes, nonetheless, to reach the chemist's, which was only a few hundred yards away. The bell over the door jingled softly as he elbowed it open, sidestepping into the brightly-lit, near-empty shop.

_Astin,_ Roland reminded him, as they passed a shelf of painkillers.

_I know, I know_, Constantine thought back irritably. _If this doesn't work, I'm not carting two fucking tons of aspirin to the counter and back for no fucking reason._

_You said it would work._

_It will. Shut up, I need to concentrate. Okay? Little co-operation goes a bloody long way, you know._

Roland said nothing, which Constantine took to mean assent. Striding over to the counter, he dug into his deep pockets, shoving aside God only knew what in favour of the scrap of hotel paper he had scribbled _THIS IS A PRESCRIPTION_ onto.

"Oi! Mate!" When the clerk didn't turn, Constantine slammed his fist down on the counter, impatiently and almost petulantly. "Oi!"

"Hm?"

"Keflex," the Englishman said bluntly. "I need Keflex. How much have you got?"

"Have you got a prescription?" the clerk asked wearily, turning and sighing. "Can't dispense Keflex without a valid prescription. And you don't even look ill." He was a young man, probably twenty or twenty-five, all skin and bone topped with a wild mop of ginger hair.

Constantine rolled his eyes. "I had lung cancer," he informed the younger man. "Apparently, that's why I'm getting all these infections. My doctor back in England gave me a prescription, but nobody here'll fill it, so I went to see another doctor on this side of the Atlantic." It was pure bullshit, but John Constantine was an established bullshitter. He didn't even know whether the cancer – and oh, how he wished _that_ part was bullshit – had any sort of bearing on infections. Luckily, by the looks of things, the chemist didn't either.

"I'll need to _see_ it, please," he said, holding his hand out. Rolling his eyes again, Constantine pulled out the scrap of paper, glanced at it, and handed it over without any further hesitation.

Inside his head, Roland was gawping. Somehow, the paper that had been plain and greyish moments before was crisp, pure white, printed with boxes and text that he couldn't read, but which were certainly not the scrawling handwriting that Constantine had put there. This – this was unlike anything else he had seen in this world. This was _sorcery_.

_Illusion, actually,_ Constantine corrected him, his mental voice rather strained. _And it's a bitch to keep up for any length of time. We should get out of here ASAP._

_ASAP?_

_As Soon As Possible, you stupid bastard. _Constantine glanced up at the clerk, who was giving him an odd look, then lowered his eyes again, tapping his fingers impatiently on the counter. _I don't like this, all right? Even in New York, the fucking crowds shouldn't get _this_ big, I swear to God. _

_What does it matter?_ Roland asked. It was a mistake.

_It matters because it could be the fucking _demon_, that's why it matters! _Constantine near-yelled in his head. _It matters because there's people out there who could be fucking _dying_ while I'm stood here talking to a man from another world! It _matters_!_

The clerk cleared his throat, hauling Constantine's attention back to the matter in hand, and shoved a bag of pills over the counter. "Is that everything?"

"Nah. Give me a sec."

**2**

"Aspirin. Keflex. There, that's two out of three, not bad for a start."

_Four_, Roland corrected him reflexively.

"No shit, mate. Look around you and tell me that getting _food_ is going to be a problem. Well, I suppose that all depends on what you call food, of course. That pasta, for example, was clearly not it." Pulling out a fresh packet of Silk Cuts, he shoved one into his mouth and lit it, taking a long drag. "Okay, mate, that's all I can do for you 'til Midnite gets back to me on the bullets thing. We've run your errands, now let me run mine." The aspirin and Keflex vanished into the depths of the trenchcoat's pockets, along with Constantine's hands, and he started to shove his way through the slowly thinning crowds with all the expertise of a veteran Londoner.

Inside the head that they were unwillingly sharing, Roland's consciousness sank back slightly. His mind was buzzing. The other two had never thought of themselves as gunslingers, he was fairly sure – it hadn't been a skill they had needed, and that was fine; that was _ka_. But that this Constantine seemed to be a gunslinger bred, not just born, and apparently a wizard to boot – that was _ka_ too, of course, but it was also very, very different. Roland didn't know whether it would be good or bad, but something told him that it would make things a hell of a lot more complicated, either way. And the man seemed honest enough, too – a little too lighthearted, a little too flippant, but there was steel there, for sure.

One thing was certain above all else, though. The eyes Roland had seen in the mirror, straight before he had _come forward_ – they had not been the same ice-blue, or the same shape, or the same size, but they had been a reflection of his own, nonetheless. Hard eyes. Bombardier's eyes. Gunslinger's eyes.

He had never been so sure of anything in his life as he was sure of this. Constantine was a gunslinger – and the weight of _ka_ laid as heavy on his shoulders as it did on Roland's own.

"Shit..." The word, combined with a low whistle, broke into Roland's thoughts, made him concentrate sharply on what Constantine's eyes saw.

His first thought was of a wolf – a great, angry wolf. Or a bear, smashing and slashing its way through this strange city, hungry, angry, destroying everything in its path. But no bear could have done so much damage, however huge, however deadly. The ground around the shattered shell of the storefront was caught in bubbles, as though it had been boiling underfoot; bodies were scattered willy-nilly around the street, backs broken and eyes wide with horror.

Constantine's first thought was rather more concise. _Fuck_.

The policemen behind the band of yellow tape looked shellshocked, taken aback by the sheer scale of the destruction, and he wondered furiously how he hadn't seen this from a mile off. Three of the shops ranged along the street had been torn through, so violently that he could see daylight the other side, and rubble filled the street.

Glancing around at the hungry, perverse looks on the faces of the throng, he muttered, "Shit," again, a little more violently, and shoved forwards, ducking under the police tape. "I'm MI5," he told the policemen, before they could even move. "We've been looking for the guy who did this for months. We think it might be some new sort of bomb, but we're closing in on him, and.."

"ID?" There was the click of a safety catch, flicking off.

"Fuck's _sake_..." Constantine muttered, digging in his pocket and pulling out his wallet. "There. ID. Happy?" he snapped, pulling out his credit card and holding it out. "Roland Deschain, MI5, terrorist division, special services, there you go, now can I do my fucking _job_?" Without waiting for a reply, he shoved past the policeman, pushing down on the barrel of the gun.

_Roland Deschain?_ Roland commented in his head, sounding almost amused.

_Yeah, well, rather not have it traced back to me when they find out there's no terrorist and no MI5 involvement,_ Constantine replied automatically, then paused, squatting down and squinting at the wreckage. _You almost sounded human then. Congratulations, mate. You've gained a sense of humour. Now, what you do with it is this..._

"Inspector... Deschain, was it?" Dislike positively _dripped_ from the cop's voice. "With all due respect, what does MI5 have to do with this? In short, why are you here?"

Constantine was on his feet immediately, his face inches from the other man's. "Because we know what's going on here, and you don't. Because we have specialist training, and you don't. But most importantly, because I've been following the bastard from Newcastle to New York and crossing over every other bloody place in between, and I am _not_ about to let you bastards fuck it up." Taking his cigarette out of his mouth, he pursed his lips and puffed smoke into the policeman's face. "If you want to argue with me, take it up with the MoD. I have a job to do. Now, are there any witnesses?" He glanced around the devastated street, then added as an afterthought, "that I can contact without a séance?"

_The man's got gall_, he thought, staring the American policeman down.

_Unfortunately,_ Roland agreed, almost impressed by the insolence in the conflicting glare. _What in the hells did this?_

_Demon,_ Constantine replied shortly, not so much as blinking. Out loud, he said sharply, "Look, this guy is dangerous. If you want _this_..." - the sweep of his arm encompassed the crushed streetfront, the mangled bodies, the crowd drawn nearer by that sense of perverse fascination - "...to happen again, then by all means, be my guest. Get in my way. Stop me from catching him. I'll go home, watch from London, and if anyone complains, then I'll just inform them whose fault it was, and remind them that, at least, it isn't in Britain any more. Capische?"

Sullenly, the policeman nodded. "Young woman. Hid next door."

"Where is she now?"

"I don't know."

"What did she see?"

There was a brief pause – but not, Roland and Constantine noticed together and with some satisfaction, the sort of pause you got before a lie – as the policeman gathered his thoughts together.

"Nonsense. Post-traumatic stress, I think the paramedic said."

Constantine nodded levelly. "It's common. But I still need to know what she said. Did she see... a big, big animal, sort of like a gorilla?"

The policeman narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "How do you know that?"

Constantine rolled his eyes. "How long have I spent on this case? Which way did she say the gorilla-thing went?"

It took a while for the answer to come, but eventually the American jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. "Down Forty-Sixth Street."

"Fuck," Constantine muttered, dropping his cigarette on the ground and grinding out the smouldering end. "When?"

"Two hours ago."

"Nothing after that?"

The policeman shook his head, looking slightly frightened now by the burning in this strange Englishman's eyes. "Not that I've heard, Inspector."

"_Fuck_! Bastard's gone to ground! Look, mate, you hear anything, ring me, okay? Here's my number, call it without good reason and I'll rip your spleen out, got to go, fetch more supplies, don't go after the fucker unless you have a death wish. Ta." Patting the policeman quickly on the shoulder, he turned, vaulting over the police tape, and pulled out his phone as he shoved through the crowd.

Settled at the back of his mind, Roland watched grimly. He was beginning to reevaluate the Last Man whose head he found himself in.

Maybe not so honest, then.

**3**

"Midnite? It's here. I don't have time for your quibbling or your procrastinating or _anything_, you voodoo fucker, get me those bullets. Now. I'll get down to the club, even, make it easy on you, just get me the fucking bullets. Got it?"

His voice was hard, and there was no humour in it, only a steel that made him sound increasingly like Roland. On the other end of the phone, Papa Midnite heard it, and decided against argument. It was _his_ city at stake, after all.

"I fucking hate New York," Constantine muttered, flicking the phone shut and shoving it back into his pocket. "Absolutely fucking hate the shithole. Roland, do you know anything about demons?"

Roland thought about it – thought about Farson, and Marten, and Rhea of the Coös. Then he sighed, and answered.

_Only the human kind._

**4**

Papa Midnite's club was definitely running itself downhill, Constantine decided. Years back, when he'd come here last, it had been a high-rent sort of place. Now, he could actually get in through the front door – which just went to show how standards had declined. Then again, he wasn't dragging along a drugged-up Gary Lester this time, so that might have something to do with it, too.

Up on the roof, and in the chilled Manhattan air again, he tapped his fingers impatiently against the wall, uncomfortably aware of Roland's presence in the back of his mind. Then again, this time around, they did at least have something in common. Both of them had no time to waste.

Unfortunately, wasting time seemed to be exactly what Papa Midnite was about.

"Look, I know you have the bullets already, you fucking cunt. You've got fucking _everything_. Few bullets should take five fucking minutes to get hold of." Stubbing out his cigarette, he immediately replaced it with another, fingers shaking slightly. "We know where we stand, all right? I hate you, you hate me, we're a fucking happy family. Get the hell over it, move on, and get me what I _need_."

"It takes time," the witch doctor replied calmly, standing at the edge of the rooftop and looking out over New York. "You still haven't told me what you _do _need."

"You haven't given me a chance," Constantine countered. "Show me a chart or something, you know damn well I'm no gun expert."

_Those ones_! Roland cried out, as soon as Midnite pulled the crumpled sheets out of his pocket. _Those ones, there_! They weren't what he was after, not exactly, but he knew – and almost immediately, Constantine knew as well – which ones would fire.

The Englishman nodded briefly, tapping the paper. "Right. Them. How soon?"

Midnite shrugged, a thin smile crossing his face now that he knew he was in charge again. "Five, ten minutes?"

"Right, then I need a map of New York and some quiet while you get me some fucking bullets." Taking a drag of his cigarette, Constantine tapped the ash off the end and put his free hand in his deep pockets. Pulling out a little pendulum, he swung it to and fro in front of the witch doctor's face, then snatched it back again. "Got a back room I can use?"

"Downstairs," Midnite said shortly, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder, and turned away again, phone in hand.

_Who is he?_ Roland asked, as Constantine stalked away, eyes narrow and fists clenched.

"A prick," Constantine replied promptly and unhelpfully, feet clattering on the metal stairs. After a moment, he added, "A witch doctor. Voodoo bastard. Have those where you come from, Roland? Anyway, thought I'd dealt with him for the last time back in '87, but I guess not. Thing is, he's a prick with a criminal empire, which makes him the quickest way to get ammo around here. I mean, he's got what you might call a vested interest in the survival of New York – the city goes down, he's going to lose one hell of a lot of his pension fund." Snorting, he shoved open the nearest door, glanced around, and, finding the room empty, kicked the door shut behind him. "And don't say you don't get it, because I know damn well you don't."

_What are you going to do?_ Roland asked instead, as Constantine pulled a map out of his inside pocket and laid it out on the ground.

"Find the fucking demon. Shut up, I need to concentrate." Taking the pendulum out again, he closed his eyes and held it over the unfolded map. "And keep an ear out for me. I don't trust Papa Midnite an inch."

**5**

_Why didn't you do that straight away? _Roland asked cagily, as they left the club. _You could have found this demon by now._

"I _did_ find it, remember?" Constantine retorted, shoving the box of bullets forcefully under one arm and striding on down the street. "I was on its tail, and then you shoved your way into my head and fucked it up. And then it got its act together while I was getting you your pills. Remember?" he added nastily. The implications were obvious: Roland bridled, but said nothing.

"I thought it would wait a little longer before it made its next move," the blonde Englishman confessed eventually, as they turned down the next street. "But I'm confused, honestly. That cop said it headed down Forty-Sixth Street, and now it's _here_." He tapped the map he was still carrying in one hand, frowning. "That means it must have turned halfway to _here..._" - he tapped the map again, on the junction between Forty-Sixth Street and Second Avenue - "towards_ this_ street here, and I don't think that's because a traffic warden told it it was driving on the wrong side of the road."

_Maybe it saw a better hiding place?_ Roland suggested, but in all honesty, he was equally interested.

"Doubt it. That's like saying a mammoth would hide in a sleepy little village. You obviously haven't seen the size of the thing. Last hideout it found was a multi-storey car park, and even that was a bit of a squeeze." Stubbing out his third cigarette of the last ten minutes, the Englishman reached into his pocket, cursing. "Okay, so we'll be making a pit stop on the way."

_I do not..._

"Understand, yeah, I know. I need some more fags. In industrial quantities, at this rate. We'll get you a sandwich as well, 'kay?"

_Tooter fish? _Roland asked, something like eagerness in his voice that made Constantine smirk.

"Tuna? Sure, mate, if that's what does it for ya." Glancing back down at the map, with the demon's current position circled in red biro and all its previous ones scribbled out, he frowned and shoved it back into his pocket. "Now, where does one go to find a bloody newsagent's in this town?"


	3. Dungeons & Demons

**Disclaimer: **The Dark Tower series and Hellblazer comics _still_ don't belong to me, oddly enough. But I'm sure Stephen King and Vertigo Comics are nice and will not sue.

**A/N:** I really need to work on my patience. This chapter is unbeta'd. The last chapter is unbeta'd. I need to stop posting unbeta'd fic.  
I also need to stop writing fic when I'm supposed to be doing important coursework. Somebody crack me on the head, willya?  
Enjoy! Concrit is absolute love.

**1**

"You believe in coming well-prepared, don't you, Inspector Deschain?" The policeman raised one eyebrow just the right side of insolence.

"Don't get fucking smart," Constantine retorted, glancing down briefly at the bagful of cigarette boxes in one hand. "Not the time for it, not the place. Look, I don't want anyone to get caught up in this who doesn't have to. Close off the street. Move out anybody there. And whatever happens, don't come looking for me. You can't deal with this bugger, and don't think you can."

"One terrorist?" The younger man cocked his head, looking slightly disdainful. "I don't know what you think, Inspector, but let me assure you..."

"One terrorist bastard who's left over a hundred corpses between Glasgow and here, with_out_ counting injury, mental scarring, and bloody _massive_ property damage," Constantine cut in smoothly, pulling out his pistol and making a show of checking it was loaded, although he knew damn well that it was. "Don't push it, mate. You have five minutes, and then you come out and I go in. Got it?"

Sullenly, the policeman nodded, pulling out his radio and stalking away. As soon as he was safely out of earshot, Constantine snorted and sat down on the edge of the pavement, sticking a cigarette in his mouth and lighting up.

"I don't believe I'm holding a _tuna sandwich_ hostage..." he said under his breath, laughing humourlessly.

_Nor do I_, Roland assured him, drily.

"Was that a joke, Deschain?" Constantine asked with a smirk, around the cigarette, as he began to sort the twenty or so packets from the bag into his pockets. "Because, if it was, you really need to work on that." Shaking the remaining boxes neatly into the bottom of the bag, he knotted it around his belt. Roland chose to ignore the aspersion.

_Why are you doing this?_ he asked instead.

"I'm hunting the demon because that's what I do," Constantine replied cagily, avoiding the question.

_With the... the fags?_ Roland persisted.

"For God's sake, just call them cigarettes. It sounds like an insult when you say it. Maybe it's just because you're so bloody American, but still..."

_American? _Roland asked, confused and momentarily distracted.

Constantine rolled his eyes. "Forget it. Tell you later. Or something." He looked up sharply, almost grateful for the distraction. "Heads up, Roland, mate. Here comes trouble. Again." Clicking his tongue sharply, he stood up, arms folded, and strode out to meet the policeman. "What is it this time? Don't tell me you're done, that was never five minutes just now."

"Welcome to America, Inspector," the policeman said with a smirk playing across his lips.

"Hm." Constantine tilted his head, looking distinctly unimpressed. "Make sure the street's cordoned off as soon as I get in. And if anything comes out, my phone's on. You know the number. It's not getting away this time." With that, he clapped the policeman firmly on the shoulder, turning and striding down the street.

The younger man watched him go, frowning deeply. Something was odd about this Inspector Deschain, with his arrogance and his in-your-face attitude and his smart way of calling your bluff. Bluff... that was it. He acted like a man who was bluffing, all bluster and an answer for everything. Sam Milligan didn't think for a moment that Inspector Deschain was what he said he was.

He was just about to get out his phone and make a few calls to that effect, when something else struck him, and he blinked.

"What did he mean, _it_?"

**2**

As soon as he had ducked out of sight of the police blockade, Constantine holstered his gun, pulling the water pistol out of his inside pocket. "Listen, Roland, the minute this is over, I'm going with you, all right? I'd rather not be here when that nice policeman calls homeland security and finds out I'm impersonating a government agent. I imagine that the consequences will be... unpleasant."

_Of course_, Roland replied instantly, rather surprised by the decision.

"Brilliant. Now, in the immortal words of somebody or other... let's roll." Pulling out the map, he unfolded it quickly, nodded shortly to himself, and gave the silly plastic gun one last pump before diving out of the doorway they were standing in and hurrying down the street, just a little further. Around them, office blocks stood tall, casting long shadows in the evening light.

Evening.

_We have to hurry! _Roland urged him, as the sun went behind a cloud for a moment, darkening the sky a little.

"Whatever it is," Constantine said grimly, "it can wait." Looking the place in front of him up and down, he cracked a grin. "Jesus fucking _Christ_, it doesn't get much more cliché than this. Abandoned warehouse? Really?"

_Constantine, this is _important_! When the sun goes down..._

"The fairy magic wears off and the princess turns back into a pumpkin?" Constantine suggested sardonically, putting his hand to the door. "Quiet. Let me concentrate."

_Check the door,_ Roland persisted. _At least check the door._

"No." Taking a deep breath, Constantine counted silently to ten, then hauled the warehouse door open.

For the second time that day, Roland was rendered speechless.

The stink was what hit him first. In the open, when he had seen the beast before, the wind had taken the stench away a little, and besides, he hadn't been paying attention to that. But in the confined space of the warehouse, which the massive creature almost filled, the smell was almost unbearable, like piss and poison and rotten meat, and he understood why Constantine had taken quite such a deep breath; without some sort of preparation, the stench would have knocked him backwards.

The creature itself was huge, too huge to see properly, and Constantine wasn't wasting time trying. But lodged firmly at the back of his mind, the gunslinger watched, and fitted together a sort of picture of the creature from the flashing glimpses. It held itself like a great ape, knuckles brushing the ground and fanged jaw jutting forwards. Its skin was a dark charcoal colour, scaled and dry, and its pupiless crimson eyes glittered with malign intelligence. Roland was reminded, suddenly, horrifyingly, of his brief visit to Thunderclap long ago. Of the Crimson King. Nausea filled him.

Then it roared, and all his thoughts were swept away by a wave of sheer volume. The sound echoed around the massive room, wild and angry and unchecked. Even Constantine was taken by surprise; he stumbled back, water jetting vainly from his toy gun and arcing through the air without touching the hide of the massive beast. He cursed, staggering back into the corner and taking several deep, gasping breaths as he flattened himself against the wall, grey eyes narrowed as he glared at the demon. Roland could see the reflection in the malignant crimson eye; touseled blonde hair flapping in a heavily lined face, a silly little toy gun pointed at the beast as though it could make a difference, and a look of absolute determination in those steely bombardier's eyes.

"Come on then, you fucker," Constantine hissed, his free hand fumbling with the butt of his second pistol. "Come on, if you dare."

With another earsplitting roar, the massive hunched figure swung a clawed hand at the tiny figure of its hunter, the air around it beginning to haze with heat. The talons, each easily as long as Roland's arm, scraped along the wall with a sound like an earthquake, and it was only a split second before they struck that Constantine ducked, rolling underneath the blow and coming up onto his knees directly underneath the creature's throat. The gun was in his hand before he had even struck the ground, and he fired off two shots in quick succession, first with the water, then with the bullets. The water hissed as it made contact with the beast's hide, seeming to burn; the demon roared again, clutching at his throat as the bullet hit home.

Without waiting to see the effect, Constantine leapt to his feet, ducking between the demon's forelimbs and sprinting for the metal stairs leading to the offices upstairs. "Roland!" he shouted out loud as his feet clattered on the steel steps. "Any idea what I should do now?"

_You don't know? _the gunslinger demanded incredulously, as the beast turned and howled. A fresh wave of sound and stink battered at Constantine, who stumbled back a step; under the creature's taloned feet, the concrete floor was beginning to melt, softening and hissing. With a muffled curse, the Englishman tugged open the nearest door and dived through, tossing aside the empty water gun and pulling out the pistol he had loaded with silver. Breathing heavily, he backed up against the wall, dropping into a sprinter's stance as the demon roared again and tore the wall away like paper.

"I'm ad-libbing," he confessed, and dived forwards as the demon's claws took out the floor from under him.

**3**

It was rather like riding a rollercoaster, Constantine thought, as his flailing arm hooked onto the demon's stubby horn. Only this rollercoaster was painfully hot, had two-foot claws, and was trying to kill him.

Ignoring the searing heat that bit into him, he managed to holster one gun – the silver one, if he was keeping track right – and with the hand thus freed, to reach up and grab the nub of horn properly, In the nick of time, too – just as he did so, the beast's claws swung up to strike. Gritting his teeth, he shoved himself into a wide swing, hanging on for dear life as the creature tossed its head in an attempt to dislodge him. Its claws landed, instead, firmly in its own skin. The roar of pain almost made him let go.

He forced himself to focus, the heat of its skin burning now as he took aim, closing one eye carefully, and fired once, twice into its open crimson eye, the gun crashing in his head.

"Come on, you ugly bastard," he urged it, as it staggered back, clutching its eye. "That's three-one. One own goal," he added, then yelped as it tossed its head again, more violently, and his grip gave way. He crashed painfully into the metal stairs, his gun clattering out of reach, and barely had time to thank whatever gods were listening that they had broken his fall before rolling out of the way of downward slashing claws.

_Constantine!_ Roland shouted in his head, and he looked up, dizzily, trying to get his bearings.

"Wh't? Wh't y' w'nt?" he mumbled, stumbling to his feet.

_Jump!_

Constantine shook his head wildly, trying to disappate the rippling, blurring distortions on his sight, and did as he was told. Lunging to his left and under the rail of the staircase, he grabbed his last remaining gun with one flailing hand as the ground rushed up to meet him. Behind him, the metal of the steps groaned and crunched as the demon ripped the whole thing clean out of the wall, flinging it after him. His shots went wild, silver clanging on iron and on burning hide as the gunslingers fell and the staircase fell after them.

"Fuck!" he shouted, as he landed, with a nasty crunch, on his right arm, and stumbled back, out of the way, as the crash of metal on concrete filled the warehouse.

_The gun! _Roland urged, as he staggered to his feet. _Get the gun!_

"I'm not left-handed!" Constantine complained petulantly, and when he laughed, briefly and grimly, blood from his split lip dribbled between his front teeth like some kind of obscene visualisation of the hacking, painful sound.

_Broken?_ the gunslinger asked, as the Englishman dived forwards, skidding and dodging on the smoking floor with blows raining down around him. Constantine nodded curtly, bending and scooping up the pistol with his left hand, and, as the demon roared again, in triumph now, he took aim at the spot of burnt hide where the water had struck before, and pumped the trigger again and again, until at last he was met with a dull click.

"Shit!" he yelled aloud, his finger still working reflexively on the trigger, and scanned the ruins of the stairs with increasing desperation. "Roland, where the fuck did the other gun fall?" For a moment, he was afraid that the gunslinger wouldn't answer either; that it was already too late.

_There!_ called Roland suddenly, and Constantine, faint with relief, let his head be turned. The gun lay, innocent and unburied, only feet away. With a roar of pain, he leapt for it, yelling out as his broken arm collided with the edge of the stair rail, and, holstering the first gun quickly, hefted it and levelled it at the beast.

His breathing slowed, the cold sweat that had broken out on his skin fading away. Filled with the icy calm of a gunslinger in the heat of a battle, he knew the shots he had to take. One to the eye already clouded where he had shot it before, another to the other eye, and a third bullet to the throat; it would leave him with an empty gun, but it would leave the beast stunned, if not dead.

No mistakes. He could not afford mistakes.

Raising the gun, he took aim.

Behind him, Sam Milligan took one look at the roaring, foaming beast with black blood bubbling and hissing from its scaly throat, one sniff of the decaying, bitter stench, and collapsed backwards in a dead faint.

**4**

"Son of a..." Constantine fired, the recoil of the pistol unfamiliar in his left hand, just as the creature halted its headlong dash and spun to the unconscious policeman. The bullet rebounded harmlessly off the creature's spiny back, richocheting back into the wall. "Fuck!"

_You have to help him,_ Roland told him firmly, as the demon sniffed the air sharply, raising one clawed hand to strike the hapless policeman.

"Help him?" Constantine retorted, taking aim at the back of the demon's head. "I'd like to do him in myself!" But he fired anyway, the bullet glancing neatly off the base of the figure's thick skull. "Oi, you ugly son of a bitch! Unfinished business here!" As the demon's head spun to face him, he kicked off, launching himself into a sprint directly at it – or, rather, at the door directly behind it.

_You know what you are doing, I hope?_ Roland said, a note of worry creeping into his calm tone.

"You know what?" Constantine smirked, stooping to pick up a chunk of concrete, which he hurled with all his strength at the hulking figure. "For once in my life, I actually do!"

**5**

_What do you need me to do?_ Roland asked, as Constantine spun on his heel in the middle of the street, fumbling to reload his gun one-handed.

"The door," Constantine grunted out, ducking to one side as the demon lunged. His handful of bullets scattered across the road, and he cursed under his breath. "When we go through, I need you to hold the door open for me." He glanced back over his shoulder at the floating section of beach behind him, catching a glimpse of Detta Walker's hate-twisted face and Eddie Dean's prone, limply struggling figure beyond, then turned back quickly, dodging neatly as the beast slashed at him hard enough to crumple the wall behind him like paper. "How long d'you reckon it'll take this bugger to force its way through? Hold the door open exactly that long, then shut it and let me deal with it."

_You want the demon to follow us through?_ Roland demanded incredulously.

"You want the demon to wreak this sort of havoc all over the world?" Constantine countered, finally managing to load the gun. "'Cause I don't, and if it isn't coming through, then I'm going back. Weigh the balance, mate. You, Eddie, and Detta, or the whole damn world?"

Roland stayed silent, carefully not saying that he, Eddie, and Detta might very well represent the whole _universe_ in this equation. Still running for his life, Constantine took it for assent.

"I can hold it off a few minutes, once it's through," he assured the gunslinger, sounding a lot more certain than he was. "It's just a matter of willpower. That'll be long enough to cut your lad loose, and we can worry about what comes next when it comes."

_It has to be before sunset,_ Roland told him urgently. _Sunset's when they come out._

Leaping aside from the crash of rubble, Constantine glanced briefly up at the darkening sky. The light was fading to the grey-blue of a city dusk, the sun reddening over the ragged silhouette of the city.

"No pressure, then?" he said wryly, holding back from asking what in the name of blue fuck Roland meant by 'they'.

Behind the demon, the small, ragged figure of Sam Milligan was moving, as he began to struggle to his feet. Constantine cursed again, under his breath, and raised his gun as metal and concrete rained down around him. "Let's see PC Plod there try to explain _this_ to his bosses," he muttered grimly, and fired. The beast's massive, ape-like head spun with phenomenal speed, its wounded eye bleary and semi-blind, but still undeniably focused on him. Claws dragging into the by now bubbling tarmac, it threw back its head and roared.

_Now?_

"Hell, yes!"

His shattered right arm screaming pain at him, his head pounding, and blood clogging his hair and his eyelids, Constantine turned and leapt through the open door, arms and legs flailing as he landed on fine, harsh sand. Picking himself up, he stumbled a few steps out of reach, turning back to face the door with his gun in his hand. The plastic bag at his belt finally gave up the ghost, splitting at the seams; cigarette packets and bullets rolled away, scattering over the beach.

In the moment before the demon shoved its slavering, stinking head through the door up to the shoulders, Constantine took in everything he could. None of it made any sense, not really. Feet away from the open door, _two_ Detta Walkers lay struggling on the sand, glaring eye to eye, hands clawing at each others' throats as though nothing in the world mattered but the other's death. Behind him, the thin young man called Eddie Dean lay wild-eyed and staring on his belly, a rope stretching from his ankles to his neck. And then, his back against the door, all his effort put into holding it open, strained a man who could only be Roland Deschain. From the ice-blue eyes that Constantine had seen reflected in the hotel mirror to the heels of his ragged boots, he was exactly as Constantine had imagined him – except for the two fingers missing on one hand; except for the red lines of blood poisoning raging up his arm.

The Englishman took a step forwards, regaining his balance and fixing his attention on the raging demon. Narrowing his eyes, he lowered his pistol and captured the beast's mind.

It was all he knew to expect, a raging cesspool of anger and rage and inhuman darkness. He couldn't hold it for long, but then, he hadn't expected to. He didn't have to.

Just for long enough.

The beast froze, half-in, half-out of the door, and Roland seized his chance, lunging aside on legs like wet rope to grab up his gun from where Detta had abandoned it.

For a moment, as Constantine's knees began to sag, as Roland stumbled into a run towards the dark, choking figure on the strand, as the demon shifted, ever so slightly, and one clawed hand came into view, the whole world seemed to stand still.

On the horizon, the orange-red sun shivered, as if in fear, and sank.

_Did-a-chick? Did-a-chum?_

They were coming.

**6**

They tumbled out of the rising waves like a black tide, swarming towards Eddie, who screamed as lobster-like claws clattered at his face. And then Roland's gun thundered, louder than their questioning cries, louder than the sound as Constantine threw back his head and roared, louder than the rush of winds and waves and sand, and time came flooding back.

"Get him out of there!" Constantine yelled, his own gun discharging in his hand as the barrier he had built up with his mind smashed apart, and the demon crashed free.

The woman who was neither Odetta Holmes nor Detta Walker screamed incoherently as she became whole again for the first time in years beyond counting, two women melding seamlessly into one. There was no transition, no moment of change, but suddenly, she was _there_, and Roland's gun was in her hands, and thunder split the air.

And then Roland yelled, and Eddie screamed again, and the whole of that little world was filled with a single, meaningless roar as the demon and Constantine fell at the same time, collapsing down the beach between Detta and the lobster-things click-clacking their way up the sands.

The beast was up again almost before it had fallen, barely even noticing the four-foot monstrosities clinging to the thick hide of its arms. Constantine was slower, and had barely managed to struggle to his feet, fumbling for his gun, when the demon roared again and flung its arms up, as if in frustration. He had time to wonder whether the creature realised just how dangerous the clacking, black things it had dislodged were, how good the missiles it had thrown were, before they were flying through the air and right at him.

He stumbled back, still sunk into a sort of half-crouch as he sought desperately for his gun, and straightened up just as the first of them came within reach of his exposed face, claws clacking, beak opening and closing in that absurdly plaintive question; _Dod-a-chom? Did-a-chick?_

Detta's bullet whistled inches from his nose, exploding the monstrosity into shards of shell and whitish meat. Its remains showered into him, sharp claws and armoured plates slicing into his skin, but the killing force was gone, and no claws ripped at his skin.

Leaden with exhaustion, weak and dizzy, he raised his gun, shooting again and again as though he was in some kind of trance. He barely registered the thunder of the other guns, or even the demon's roar of rage as another lobstrosity lunged, hanging on, all claws and death, to the bare, burned spot on the hulking figure's throat. He didn't see Roland stagger back up the beach, dragging Eddie after him, and collapse against a stone, breathing shallow. He didn't hear Detta/Odetta screaming her own defiance. All he saw, heard, felt was the crashing of his own gun; he was no longer even sure how many of his shots caught the clacking, questioning monstrosities, and he no longer cared.

The gun gave a dull click. Empty.

Without even taking a breath, he flung it aside, fumbling in his coat pocket and half-falling, half-running down the beach towards the gently lapping tide. The creatures still swarmed along the strand, but they kept their distance, fear sinking, apparently, into their primitive minds.

"Come on, you fucking son of a bitch!" he heard himself roar, his voice sounding distant and echoing to his own ears. "Come and get me! I hope you fucking choke on it! I hope these damn things feast on your flyblown corpse, you ugly, stinking fucker!"

The demon narrowed its dull crimson eyes, as though suspecting a trick, and lunged forwards to where he stood, a lone figure in a ragged beige trenchcoat, arms spread wide like the crucified Christ.

Broken arm flopping limply at his side and tinging his vision with roaring red pain, Constantine sidestepped neatly as the massive beast lunged, pulling his hand out of his pocket at last. Something glinted silver in his fist.

As the demon wheeled around to face him again, he let the silver object drop a little out of his hand. The crucifix swung lightly to and fro from his fingers, the chain catching the last rays of dying light.

"Go fetch," he told it firmly, and flung the necklace with all his strength into the obsidian sea.

For a moment, as he continued to back away into the now waist-deep water, it looked confused, suspicious. Then, with a wild roar, it plunged into the water after him.

**7**

In the gathering darkness, Constantine's scream of pain was chilling – but not as chilling as the other, wordless scream that split the moonlit air. In the sea, in water barely deep enough to reach the Englishman's waist, the demon was sinking. No, not sinking – burning. Burning away, as though the sea was acid, not water.

Constantine lunged at the thrashing creature as it floundered and hissed; his hand scrabbling at the spines of its back, he hauled himself out of the water. Shaking his leg wildly, he managed to crush the lobster-creature that had caught him against the demon's heaving side. It was a young one, only a foot or so long, and that, he thought dimly, had probably saved his life – or his leg, at least. But the pain was stabbing and throbbing, and if he couldn't get away before the monstrosities massed like a black tide on the beach got over their fear of him, it wouldn't make much difference. Unless he could get away before then, he was a dead man walking. Or falling.

The beast under him shuddered, rearing back in pain, and he tumbled down its back, grabbing one-handed onto the nub of its shoulderblade and struggling to hold himself up, a good ten feet above the hissing, roiling seawater. One crimson eye, wide and mad with pain and rage, swung around to look at him, and he blanched slightly.

The stink of rot had been replaced by one of burning plastic, acrid and sour. It clutched at the back of his throat, making him gag, and the pain throbbing through his whole body made his chest tight, his breathing ragged and difficult. It took him several long, dragging seconds to pull himself together long enough to pull himself properly onto the demon's back, the whole of his right side now numb with pain, between his broken arm and the large chunk of flesh torn out of his thigh. The beast's hide was blisteringly hot, and he could feel the skin peeling off his hand, but it was better than facing whatever else might be lurking in those dark waters. It took him a moment to gain his balance, and a split second later, the demon roared again, throwing its head back, and dragged itself, slowly, painfully, back onto shore. The movement sent a crash of water storming over the dark surface of the sea, edged with pinkish, bloody foam.

On land, the full extent of the damage was obvious. The beast's clawed feet were scorched to the bone, its belly blackened, and chunks of rotten-looking flesh laid bare. Bone and muscle and hide had fused into a mess of wet ash that stank to high heaven. As the figure tumbled gratefully off its back, it opened its fanged mouth and let out a curiously human scream; a scream of futile rage, agony, and fear. Mangled limbs lashed wildly, dissolving into black smears on the dark sand, and some dark, tar-like residue oozed from its underside. Its grey hide glistened in the moonlight like some huge beached whale, dark and cold and bound with ropes of sheer pain. As it howled again, dragging itself up the strand slowly, painfully, the black tide of lobster-things descended.

Constantine didn't stop to watch. Blood dribbled down his leg, his arm, his face as he staggered up the beach again. He didn't stop to pick up his abandoned gun, or to retrieve the bagful of cigarettes and bullets from where it had fallen. He couldn't stop. He could only go on half-stumbling, half-crawling, until the plaintive _did-a-chum?_ of the lobstrosities faded behind him, and then, shattered arm hanging limply at his side, he collapsed face-down where the door had been.

He took a couple of deep breaths and glanced over at Roland, who was sitting, glassy-eyed and clearly just as close to unconsciousness, inches away from him, then let his head flop back against the sand again. In the seconds before he let the pulsing, roaring pain drive him into unconsciousness, he turned his head to the gunslinger, taking another deep, rattling breath.

"Holy fuck," he managed, spitting blood, "you even _look_ like an archaic John Wayne."


	4. The Standing Man Stands

**A/N: **Oddly enough, the first version of 'Careless Love' I found was by Odetta. How's that for a coincidence?  
And the title of the video was 'Careless Love / Odetta'. Count the characters in that, now; C-A-R-E-L-E-S-S-L-O-V-E-slash-O-D-E-T-T-A. There, see? Nineteen. That proves it. XD

Anyway, that aside... still based on canons that don't belong to me, still (as yet) unbeta'd, still fail at chapter titles, still encourage concrit like WOAH. I think that's all. Enjoy!

**1**

"…think he's awake?"

The voice seemed to come from a long way away. Sluggishly, Constantine dragged himself out of a roaring pit of darkness, and forced one eye open. The sunlight was blinding.

"Fucking hell…" he muttered groggily, putting a hand to his head. "I need a fag."

"Well, I'm not volunteering!" The boy who had spoken before, a skinny young man in his early twenties, laughed a little nervously.

Constantine rolled his eyes. "A cigarette, you fuckwit. Come on, I _know_ I had some." He groaned, spitting to his side in a vain attempt to make his mouth taste a little less like something had died in it. "Jesus, what _happened_ last night?"

"Well," said another voice, a woman's, "you were…"

He held up his hand. "No, let me guess. Either I was fighting a demon, or New York drink's even worse than I thought. And I don't think the second one's even _possible_, so I'll assume the first one. Also explains why I feel like I've been taken to the fucking cleaners, right?"

At last, he managed to focus enough to take stock of his surroundings, just as the young man handed him a packet of cigarettes. Carefully manouevering one out of the packet – an act made significantly more difficult by the fact that one arm was refusing to do as it was told – he stuck it in his mouth and dug in his pocket for his lighter.

Well, he would have done.

Unfortunately, the lighter wasn't there. Come to that, nor was the pocket.

He sat bolt upright, eyes flying wide open.

"Hey, you fucking prick! What did you do with my _coat_?" A nasty suspicion was creeping over him. Looking down, it was confirmed. What he had at first taken for bandages (which was bloody stupid anyway, because where would you get _bandages_ on a two-hundred-mile stretch of fuck all?) were in fact several strips of torn fabric. Torn, nicotine-stained, tan fabric.

He was on his feet before he even remembered the chunk missing from his leg, and had already opened his mouth to swear when his body caught up with his mind and he pitched forwards gracelessly onto the sand, landing with a solid _thud_.

"I liked that coat," he said plaintively, when he had spat out his mouthful of sand. "That coat went through a lot with me. You can't _get_ coats like that any more, they cost a fucking fortune."

"Would you rather I'd left you to bleed to death?" the young man – Eddie, Constantine thought, beginning by now to trawl through the memories of the day before – retorted, giving him a nasty look that rather suggested he had considered it.

Constantine considered the state of the once-coat-now-bandages, then looked up at the American with one eyebrow raised. "Quite possibly."

The woman – Odetta, or was it Detta? – stifled a laugh behind her hand. Eddie flushed. Constantine managed to summon up a dry laugh.

"Got a drink?" he asked, when he was done. "I don't know why exactly, but my mouth tastes like I just swallowed a beach. Now, whyever could that be?"

"I _wonder_," Odetta/Detta said dryly, a smile spreading across her face.

"Less of the lip, more of the drink!" Constantine snapped, the unlit cigarette flopping obscenely between his lips. "And for Christ's sake, can you find my lighter? I'm dying here."

Smirking, Eddie dug in his pocket, and tossed the bright plastic box at Constantine's head. It bounced off the Englishman's forehead, and he yelped.

"Oi! Careful, you fucking bastard!" Fumbling in the sand for the lighter, Constantine finally managed, hand shaking, to light his cigarette. The palm of his hand was numb – which, he thought grimly, remembering how the skin had peeled off it, was either very good or very bad indeed – but as he inhaled deeply, the familiar smell of smoke in his nostrils, he sighed with relief. "Fuck, that's better. I'll have that sandwich, I reckon, since John Wayne seems to be out for the count." He nodded to Roland, who was tossing on the sand, caught in feverishness.

"Sandwich?" Eddie said, with a suspicious level of innocence.

"Yes, sandwich."

"You mean the tuna fish sandwich?"

"Yeah, that's right."

"The twenty-first century sandwich?"

"How did you… oh, best-before. Yeah, that's right."

"The tasty, tasty absolutely non-lobster-ish sandwich that's currently making a home in my stomach?"

"Yeah, that's…" Constantine's brain caught up with his mouth, and for a moment he could only glare daggers at Eddie. "You _ate_ my _sandwich_?"

To his credit, Eddie barely flinched when faced with the full force of a Constantine-glare. "Hey, buddy. You're not one of those freaks who labels their food, right? Because if you are, you musta used invisible ink."

"That's not the _point_, you fucking son of a bitch," Constantine retorted, taking a long drag of his cigarette. "I expect no less than a four-course meal in return, comprising at the very least a soup dish, fois gras, three types of posh bread, a joint of pork with crackling, and profiteroles to finish. Of course, there will also be claret and fine wine available, and coffee or tea to follow."

"We've got lobster," Eddie told him bluntly, and shoved a steaming chunk of meat under his nose.

Constantine regarded it with one eyebrow raised. "Hardly lah-di-dah dining at the Ritz, is it? Oh, well. I'm bloody starving." Grabbing the white meat with his burnt hand, he spat his cigarette out onto the sand and crammed the hot food into his mouth. It burnt more than a little, but he hadn't eaten all day, and he was hungry enough not to care.

"The Ritz wouldn't let you past the doorman," Eddie remarked, smirking.

"Fuck off," was Constantine's succint response, between mouthfuls. "Hey, for such violent little buggers, they don't half taste good. Compliments to the chef."

Eddie bowed, laughing. "Always good to meet an admirer."

"I wouldn't go that far. The coat, remember? Also, falling asleep on guard is a really bloody stupid thing to do. What, you never heard of coffee?"

"It's two hundred miles of dry beach," Eddie pointed out, a little defensively. "If you can see any coffee, please do point it out to me. See? Absolutely not my fault."

Constantine laughed hoarsely. "Bollocks."

**2**

"So… what _was_ that?" Detta/Odetta asked, frowning, and nodded back to the gigantic carcass of the beast on the shore. There wasn't much left; what the seawater hadn't eaten away, the lobstrosities had.

"Demon," Constantine grunted around his third cigarette of the day, giving the bones a cursory glance.

"Demon," she repeated incredulously, raising her eyebrows.

"Demon."

There was an awkward pause.

"Do you… erm, do this a lot?" she asked eventually, to break the silence. Behind her, Eddie was picking up the cigarette packets scattered over the beach, on Constantine's instruction (which had involved a lot of empty threats and a _lot_ of swearing). She was sitting in her wheelchair, one of Roland's guns on her lap, and watching the Englishman intensely.

Constantine shrugged. "It's a damn sight less boring than waiting in the dole queue," he replied with a smirk, and picked at a scab on his cheek, grimacing. "Who wouldn't want this fucking life, huh? Danger, excitement, coming face to face with the most evil fucking creatures the world has to offer, trying to bluff the First fucking Fallen… hell, just call me John Constantine, demon hunter!"

"I found this, John Constantine, demon hunter," Eddie called, holding up something which glittered in the sun. "Yours?"

"Fuck, yes!" Constantine grinned, holding his hand out.

"Nice necklace," Eddie commented with a smirk, jogging over and dropping it into the other man's hand.

"Yeah, and it was a fucking bitch to get." Constantine examined the crucifix carefully, then went to tuck it into his coat, remembered he didn't _have_ a coat, swore, and put in in the pocket of his jeans instead. "Straight from the Vatican, this one. Blessed by fucking Benedict Sixteen himself."

"Is that your pope?" Odetta/Detta/whoever the fuck she was asked, frowning. Constantine nodded, and she managed a smile. "So you're from…"

"Ah, of course – we haven't been introduced properly, have we?" Constantine grinned. "Hi, I'm John, and I've been an alcoholic for… oh, sorry, wrong meeting." He laughed. "John Constantine, from London, 2009. Call me John."

"Edward Cantor Dean, at your service," Eddie replied, sweeping a deep bow and laughing. "New York Bronx, 1987. A pleasure, I'm sure."

"Cantor?" Constantine snorted. "And you were born _after_ me, I guess? Heh, don't worry, sonny boy. You're still the spoilt brat around here."

"Fuck you," Eddie retorted, tossing an armful of cigarette packets at the Englishman and sitting down - but he was grinning, and he obviously didn't mean a word of it.

The woman was quiet for a moment, while both of them looked expectantly at her, and then smiled, looking down at her hands, which were twisting in her lap. "I've… been a lot of people," she said slowly, looking up at them. Eddie and Constantine both nodded, almost in unison, hanging on her every word. "I was Odetta Holmes, and I was Detta Walker, and now… now, I don't know. But I am both of them, and neither of them, and…" Biting her lip, she gave them a sudden grin. "Dean. Susannah Dean, New York, 1964. And that's thanks to you." She looked from Eddie to Constantine, looking almost overcome. "To both of you. And to Roland."

Constantine recovered first. "You're welcome," he said with a grin, doffing an imaginary cap. "Nice to meetcha, Mr and Mrs Edward Cantor Dean. A pleasure, despite the bloody stupid name."

Eddie snorted. "Hey, shut up, John. Suze was pouring her heart out there."

"Wasn't Suze I was taking the piss out of, was it?" Constantine retorted, grinning. "So, is the Lone Ranger over there a native?"

Susannah and Eddie exchanged glances. At last, Eddie shrugged.

"I guess," he said doubtfully. "I got here before Suze, and he was already there – was the one who brought me through, actually. After the rather interesting scene of me fighting mother-naked." A shadow of something like sadness crossed his face, although he was smiling.

"That must have been a defining moment in your life, Eddie," Constantine agreed gravely, "and probably the best, you kinky bastard."

"Hey!" Eddie protested, laughing. "Just because you're injured, doesn't mean I won't beat you into a pulp."

Just as Constantine was opening his mouth to make a smart reply, the gunslinger tossed suddenly in his troubled sleep. "Bert!" he shouted, almost plaintively. "Al… Alain!"

"Lone Ranger's gone doolally," Constantine commented, wincing as he dragged himself laboriously to his feet. He managed to make it almost two steps before falling this time. "Eddie, will you please shut the poor bastard up? Give him some aspirin or something."

"So," Susannah said, as Eddie hurried off to try and calm Roland down and Constantine, who was clutching at the bloody bandages around his thigh, worked himself back into a sitting position, "why do you do it?"

"Huh?"

"Hunting… hunting demons. Not sarcasm or anything, that's not what I'm after. I just want to know… why?"

Constantine – no, not Constantine. John, his name was John, _should_ be John, with people like this - frowned. Words swelled in his throat. He wanted to tell her about Newcastle, about Mnemnoth, about how it felt to watch your life get torn apart before your eyes. He wanted to tell her about all the friends he'd lost, all the times he'd seen people dying and not been able to help. He wanted to tell her about the cancer. About the dreams. About demon blood and stillborn twins and year after year spent in Ravenscar Asylum. He wanted to tell her a lot of things he'd never told anyone, a lot of things he still didn't really want to tell _himself._ There was a closeness between them already, he could feel, that was far stronger than anything he'd felt with anyone before, and it scared the living fuck out of him.

At last, through lips that suddenly felt as numb as his hand, he managed to say lamely, "Somebody has to do it."

**3**

Time passed.

No matter how much they might wish otherwise – they were hungry, and thirsty, and all of them were wounded – they were alive. And the time passed.

And at last, days or weeks later – although John's watch was working and he swore blind it had only been ten days, it felt far longer – the day came; the day that, whether or not they knew it, they had all been waiting for.

It was the day that John could walk again.

**4**

Dawn came. It was bright, it was early, and it marked the end of the endless _did-a-chick? did-a-chum?_ of the lobstrosities, which remained a profound relief.

John had one of his guns held lightly in his bandaged hand, half-empty after a night of shooting at the damn things, and his head was nodding. Behind him, the gunslinger lay still, eyes open, and stared up at the grey morning sky with unfocused blue eyes - he was usually fairly lucid by now, but weak, and sometimes, he lapsed back into delerium. His lips, dry and cracked, moved slowly in the half-darkness. The song that escaped them in a slow, steady breath was familiar to the Englishman, which surprised him.

Without really noticing, he had started singing along.

"_Love, oh love, oh careless love_…"

"Hey, John, some of us are trying to sleep," Eddie muttered, rolling over and glaring at the back of the Englishman's head.

"Bugger off and sleep, then, you little gobshite," John snapped back, dragged out of his half-doze himself. Now that he was fully conscious, his leg, his hand, his arm all throbbed with renewed vigour, and he grimaced. "Christ, I hate mornings. What I wouldn't give for a cup of coffee, or…" Sighing, he shoved a cigarette into his mouth, lit it, and took a long drag. Then, with absolutely no drama at all, he stood up and wandered over to the shoreline, picking up a dead lobstrosity in his good hand (which was healing, albeit slowly, and was now a mass of pus-filled scabs rather than a mass of blistered flesh), and was halfway back to where he had been sitting when a sharp twinge in his bad leg made him look down sharply.

His whoop of triumph woke up everybody. Even Roland.

"What the… _Fuck_, John, you're _standing_!" Eddie cried, leaping to his own feet. "That's… it's… _fuck_!"

"It's fuck?" John repeated dryly, laughing. Even the growling irritation in his belly, brought on from days of brackish stream water, Keflex, and aspirin, couldn't dampen his sudden euphoria. "Glad you think so. Certainly _hurts_ like fuck."

And they all laughed. Even Roland, who seemed to have been dragged back to sanity (or as close as he ever got; John had his doubts about that one) for the time being, summoned a wan smile. It wasn't that funny, not really, but they all laughed. They laughed because it was a miracle. They laughed because it was a sign that things could still get better. They laughed because there was one thing left in the Pandora's box Roland had opened for all of them, and it was carried on John's legs, and it was called _hope_.

Even when those legs finally gave out, and he crumpled onto the sand with a hiss of pain, they all went on laughing.

"We can do this," John said eventually, when he had composed himself, and lay on the sand like he had when he'd visited Blackpool Pier as a kid. The dead lobstrosity lay on his chest, shattered claws resting on his sling, cradled in his broken arm like a massive baby. Sand filtered lazily through the fingers of his burnt hand. He was still smiling, bouyed up by sheer triumph. "We can do this. We can do this." He repeated it over and over again, like a mantra, until at last he sat bolt upright, his grin broader than ever. "Suze, Eddie can push you. Me and Roland, we'll help each other along. I'll carry him if I have to. But we're getting _off_ this fucking beach!"

"Not like that," Roland corrected him, struggling to sit up himself. His voice was hoarse and it hurt to breathe, but at least he was himself again. "No, not like that."

"What do you mean, _not like that_?" John demanded, struggling to his feet again and limping towards the gunslinger.

"What I say," Roland replied calmly. "Not like that. You'll not get halfway off this beach carrying me, Constantine, and you know it."

"Fuck _that_!" Constantine shouted suddenly, his hand balling into a fist. "I'm not fucking staying here any longer than I have to, and nor are you, nor are any of us, we're _going_!"

"That's not what he said," Susannah put in placatingly.

"Fucking well _sounded_ like it!"

She shook her head. "No, just not like that. If _you_ push me, and _Eddie_ helps Roland, then we'll get there quicker." Seeing the look of confusion on his face, she sighed. "I can help you along, and Eddie's in a better state to walk than you."

Still frowning, John nodded.

"All right," he said slowly. "All right." The smile began to spread across his face again, bright and hopeful. "We're fucking _going_!"


	5. Sheer Bloody Mindedness

**A/N: **Oddly enough, ownership of the canons hasn't passed over to me since I wrote the last chapter, and they still belong to Stephen King and Vertigo Comics.  
Alternative to 'sheer bloody-minded stupidity' in the last section of this chapter, by the way, is 'duct tape'. I firmly believe in the second one.  
Currently unbeta'd. I swear to God, I will get around to editing this stuff some day. (Actually, I already have, so if the timescales don't quite seem to add up, it's because I mucked around with the timing of the last chapter before I wrote this one)  
Enjoy!

**1**

It didn't seem quite such a miracle any more.

No, not at all.

His leg hurt like all fuck, just enough feeling had come back into his thickly blistered hand that it was agony to push against Susannah's wheelchair, and his throat felt as though something had died in it. Considering how he gulped at the air, lungs burning, that wasn't such a distant possibility.

And he was tired. No, more than tired, he was fucking _knackered_. The going was tough, and the tough didn't have much of a chance to get going. Susannah helped as best she could, but the way up into the hills was steep and rocky, and John suspected that he would have had trouble with it even if he _wasn't_ a crocked-out old cripple with smoker's cough. Eddie certainly seemed to be finding it nearly as difficult, although that couldn't be helped by the fact that he was mostly carrying Roland, who was in much the same state as John, plus chronic hunger and a fading fever.

Sweat plastered John's shirt to his chest, sticking his blonde hair into lank, filthy clumps and soaking into his straggly two-week beard. He was aching for a cigarette, but after Eddie had pointed out to him that they had no way of knowing when they might get more, he was limiting himself to five smokes a day. Saving it. Savouring it. The ragged dogend left over from their last stop was still shoved behind his ear. He must look, he thought with a choking little laugh, more like a tramp than most tramps he knew.

"What's funny?" Eddie asked breathlessly, glancing over his shoulder at John, who shrugged.

"Fuck all, mate. Hey, you're up top there – how far till we can stop?"

"Further than you'd like," Eddie gasped back, smiling bitterly.

"Oh, bloody brilliant." Setting his feet against the largest rock he could see, John pushed as hard as he could. It took Susannah's wheelchair over the scree-covered little ridge he had been having trouble with; it also threw him completely off balance, and, because he was still hanging onto one of the chair's handles for dear life, overturned the chair as well.

John swore. That was the third time something like that had happened that day, and it wasn't yet noon.

Loose stones clattered under his feet as he struggled, one-handed, to right both of them. The chair weighed about as much as Susannah did, and he was exhausted.

The chair got halfway upright, wobbled crazily on one wheel for a moment as Susannah shifted her weight to try and take it the rest of the way, then abruptly righted itself, landing upright with a jolt. John, however, didn't follow it.

"We're never going to fucking make it at this rate…" he muttered, collapsing back against a rock. Those, at least, abounded here, if nothing else did. "Fuck it. Oi! Eddie! It's time for a break, with tea and biscuits all round!" Pulling the dogend out from behind his ear, he stuck it into his mouth, lit it, and took a deep, rattling breath of smoke. "This place makes Ravenscar look like a holiday camp," he grumbled. "Burtons for the masochists."

"Patience is a virtue," Susannah reminded him, rubbing her arm where it had struck the hard rock.

"Patience is waiting half an hour for the bus," John grumbled. "This isn't patience. This is bloody _stupidity_."

"Well, you can always go back to the beach," Eddie said, his voice unnaturally bright, stumbling back and helping Roland down before he collapsed back next to John.

"Not bloody likely. I may be stupid, but I'm not fucking suicidal, mate." Flexing his hand, which felt worse than ever, John took another long drag of his cigarette. "Nah, I'll tell you what's _really_ stupid. Coming here. Now _that's_ bloody stupid. Fucking demon. Fucking man in my fucking head," he added, glaring at Roland, who only shrugged calmly. "What the fuck's your deal, anyway?"

"I seek the Tower," Roland replied, when the pause had gone on long enough for it to be obvious that John had meant it as an actual question, and hadn't just been ranting. "That much, I told you, set my watch and warrant on it."

"Really?" John rolled his eyes. "Well, '_scuse_ me. I reckon that must've got lost in all your blathering about Eddie-boy and the wonders of a biro – well, that and that you were rifling through my head. Slightly distracting, you know, trying to whisk thoughts out of the way and hold up an illusion at the same time."

That was enough to bring Roland up with a start. "You were…"

"Yeah," John cut in, "and trust me, you're lucky I did. Some stuff in there… well, you really _don't_ want to see it, okay?" Newcastle, for example – that much, he did remember clearly of the events which already seemed almost like a dream; the gunslinger had been perilously close to unearthing Newcastle in his memories. "So, you're looking for a tower. And a tower requires you to invade people's personal space and go rooting through their heads?"

"Not a tower," Roland said, "the Tower. The Dark Tower."

John snorted. "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came, huh?"

It took him a moment to realise that all three of them were staring at him like they'd just seen a ghost. Sadly enough, the experience of being stared at like that wasn't really new to him, but hey, c'est la vie.

"Yeah? It's Browning. Robert Browning. O-level English Lit, all of six months before I dropped out. I only remember it 'cause, at the end, the whole bloody class – including me, by the way – started sniggering when… oh, what was the line?" He smirked. "Oh, yeah… _Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set/And blew, Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came_. Not really all that funny, but you know kids. Dirty-minded little buggers. Oi, Roland, you okay?"

Roland stared at him, those ice-blue eyes wide. "Tell it, sai Constantine," he commanded. "All of it you can recall, every word. Tell it."

John blinked. "I just _did_. Jesus Christ, Roland, I don't know the rest of it – it's been forty-odd years since I even glanced at it! Um… something about an old guy who lied a lot, and a horse that looked dead. And then he's remembering people… um, Giles was one of the names, I think, and the other was… erm… Christ, I can't fucking _remember_, all right? Charles or Carl or…"

"Cuthbert?" Roland suggested, his expression earnest, somehow more focused than usual. His ice-blue eyes were fixed on John's sea-coloured ones.

"Maybe… yeah, maybe." Taking one last drag of his cigarette, John flicked it aside, grinding it out with the heel of his good foot. "Is it that hard to accept that I just can't fucking _remember_ some poem I studied for two weeks when I was a kid? Lot of water under the bridge since then, Roland, mate. Most of it filthy." Coughing into his hand, he struggled upright, face set, and took hold of Susannah's wheelchair again. "Okay, kids. Breaktime's over. Just chuck your milk cartons in the bin on the way over, won't you? I don't want to have to tell you again."

"Milk cartons?" Eddie grimaced. "Hell, what I wouldn't _give_ for a milk carton!"

"Even an empty one?" John laughed, doing his best to ignore the throbbing, red-hot pain in his leg. "Get yerself up and over that ridge, you buggers, before I decide it's not worth it and leave the whole damn lot of you behind."

Diplomatically avoiding the fact that John Constantine probably couldn't leave a drunken snail behind at the rate he was going, Eddie and Roland stood up.

"I'll take Suze," Eddie said, putting his hand on John's shoulder. "The next bit looks harder."

"Yeah, that's what she said," John responded, automatically, and shook the young man's hand away. "Joking aside, mate… why the fuck should you? I'm not a bloody cripple just yet, ta very much."

"Soon will be, if you keep this up," Eddie muttered.

"Hey, I _heard_ that!" Eyes narrowed, John took firm hold of the wheelchair again. "I'm fine, all right? I've had worse. Let me tell you about Calibraxis some time."

"I don't give a flying _fuck_ how bad you've had before!" Eddie yelled suddenly in his face, snapping at last. "I don't give a _shit_ about Calibraxis, whatever the fuck Calibraxis is! You said we were being stupid coming up here, well, you ever fucking think _you_ might be being stupid?" His face was twisted up with frustration and rage, his eyes blazing like twin suns. "Give it _up_, Constantine! You're not o-fucking-kay, all right? Stop fucking yourself around like this! Move over, I'm taking Suze!"

"Like fuck you are," John said bluntly, putting his hand flat on the young man's forehead and shoving him to one side. "Stop acting like I'm going to fall over any minute, okay, Eddie? I'm fine. Fucking _knackered_, that's all. And so are you, don't fucking deny it. So are all of us. So you look after yourself, and I'll look after myself, and the Lone Ranger can look after himself, and we'll be out of this shithole before you can say Bob's your uncle."

"Bob's your uncle," Eddie said, and laughed. It wasn't a happy laugh. "We out yet, John?"

"Doesn't fucking look like it, does it?" John glared at him, closing his hand into a fist around the handle of Susannah's wheelchair, and stumbled on up the steep slope. "Well? You coming?"

"Constantine." Roland was on his feet now, his step unsteady as he pushed himself over to the Englishman's side on legs stiff from misuse. "Let Eddie take the chair. What is it you fear?"

"Hell, the Devil," John replied sharply, "and sod all else." With that, he turned his back on the gunslinger, and forced himself a few more steps, forcing down the pulsing, screaming pain in his legs.

Roland watched him for a moment, cool blue eyes expressionless. "I had not taken you for a fool, Constantine," he said eventually, starting up the rocky hillside himself.

"Really? Well, that makes me feel a whole fucking load better." John half-smiled, snorting. "Most people don't take me for anything _but_. Tell me what you take me for, then, oh wise one."

"A brave man," Roland replied smartly, ignoring the sarcasm which dripped from the other man's voice, "sly, quick-witted, less sure of himself than he lets on. I take you for a good man to have on your side, a bad man to make an enemy of. I took you, from the start, for a man who has made some poor choices in his life, lost more than he thought possible, given up on several occasions, but stubborn enough to rise up and keep on fighting. I take you…" He paused briefly, catching his breath and leaning for a moment on a protruding rock, and then set his jaw and went on walking. His missing fingers throbbed. "I take you for a _gunslinger_, John Constantine, that's what I take you for."

John was silent for a long moment, toiling on with his blonde head bowed and his makeshift bag, filled with cigarettes, bullets, and everything else that had been in his coat pockets, striking against his hip with every step he took. Then he laughed, a short, barking laugh that had nothing to do with humour.

"Nice speech, mate. Really. You should join a debating society or something." Snorting, he exhaled slowly, then, still holding Susannah's wheelchair in his blistered hand, turned to face Roland, who was by now maybe a foot or so behind him. "But you take it completely wrong, mate. I'm not a gunslinger. You don't fucking _know_ me. Don't think otherwise, just because you poked around in my head for a few hours. Believe me, if I'd wanted to, I could have made you believe I was a fucking three-legged donkey. I learnt a hell of a lot more from you than you did from me, you self-absorbed, pompous son of a bitch, and I have one word for you; _Jake_."

The gunslinger froze midstep.

Eddie blinked.

John just smirked, satisfied that he had made an impression, and went on pushing Susannah up the hillside. Or at least, he tried to.

"I don't think so, John," she said, looking up at him. Her hands were squeezing the brakes until the knuckles went white, and there was a great deal of Detta Walker in her smile. "Give Eddie the chair."

**2**

So it was that, when they crested that hill, it was Eddie who was pushing the wheelchair; Eddie who carried Susannah on his back when the going was too tough to ride; Eddie who lagged behind, forcing the unwieldy metal over loose scree and slippery stone.

He never complained, of course. Eddie Dean wasn't really the complaining sort. Nor was John, who continued to stumble onwards, a few paces ahead of the others, his leg screaming bloody murder at him with every step he took. Nor was Susannah, whose entire left side was a mass of bruises from her fall earlier.

Nor, indeed, was Roland Deschain. Still, though he might not have been complaining, every tense line of his body told that what John had said, that one word, had struck him deep. Guilt and anger and sadness swirled in him like a maelstrom, though his face remained as stony as ever.

Part of him still held out hope that Constantine had plucked the name from something he had said while he was delerious, but the greater part of him, which had seen magic before and could read the man better than either of them realised, knew that was not the case. And after all, what did it matter? However the man knew that name, it was what it meant that was important. And what it meant was betrayal. Treachery.

What it meant was that, once again, he had let somebody fall into the abyss.

He was so focused on these thoughts, and on navigating the difficult paths into the hills, that he didn't even notice Constantine come up beside him until he heard the other man's voice in his ear.

"Look, mate, I'm sorry."

Roland said nothing. What, after all, was there to say?

Constantine sighed. "I was pissed off, okay? And when I looked… well, you know, you were rummaging through my head, I think it's perfectly fair if I rummaged through yours."

"Fair has nothing to do with it," Roland said bluntly.

"No, well, fair never does, does it? I didn't mean to go that deep, but if you lay yourself wide open like that and pop up in my head, you're fucking _asking_ for it, okay? Don't do that again. I've got enough trouble of my own, without accidentally stealing yours as well." He paused, well aware that he was being a prick, and trying to fool himself and the world that he didn't care. After a moment, he sighed. "But… look, Roland, I know how it feels. When you try and save someone, and you think you have, and they fall…" He closed his eyes for a moment, sighing. "It happened to me, all right? In Newcastle. A long, long time ago, when I was young and stupid and far too fucking self-obsessed. And you're left holding their hand, but there's nobody attached to it."

He went quiet for a moment, then shook his head, as though he was dispelling a particularly nasty thought. "Point is, I lost Astra to Hell, and you can't take that back. But I was thinking about it, and I reckon, if I can remember the spell… well, I reckon I can bring this Jake kid back. In one piece, even, if you're lucky," he added, with a grin which Roland felt was rather out of place. "But we're just as likely to end up with a nine-headed demon-rat from the Inner Circle, or nothing at all, unless there's a place somewhere around the corner that sells ancient tomes of things man was not meant to wot of. Think about it, okay?"

**3**

Roland thought about it. Deeply, and at length, Roland thought about it.

**4**

"Stupid," John muttered, tugging himself over a large boulder that filled the path. "Stupid, stupid, stupid. John Constantine, you are one stupid bugger."

His hand – the one not bound up in a sling – was shaking. Despite his earlier resolution, he'd lit up a cigarette to calm his nerves, and had no doubt that he would be unable to resist having another one soon after. In a way, it had worked for a while – the coughing fit engendered by struggling up a rockslide while smoking would have been sufficient to take anyone's mind off all but how to breathe. In another way, though, he was absolutely fucked.

It felt, he decided, altogether too much like waking up after a night on the tiles, complete with splitting headache and the vague taste of vomit. Mostly, though, what made it feel like that was the questions; _did I _really_ just tell that son of a bitch about Newcastle? Did I _really_ suggest raising a kid from the dead? Did I _really?

Only thing was, in this case, he didn't have the excuse of having been offhis head at the time. He couldn't even blame it on the pills, since Roland had popped the last of those days ago. He didn't have an excuse. Hell, he wasn't sure he even had a _reason_, except that he'd known exactly how bad saying that name would make Roland feel, and he'd said it anyway.

"Fucking stupid bastard," he muttered again, collapsing on top of the boulder and reaching down his good hand to help Eddie lift the wheelchair over the boulder.

"What? What did _I_ do?" Eddie asked, aggrieved.

"Absolutely nothing." John grimaced, hauling at the bloody chair. He'd seen _cars_ lighter than that thing. "Hey, Suze, can you give that wheel a boost?"

"Sure." She smiled at him, reaching over Eddie's shoulder to push at the wheelchair. "John?"

"Yeah?"

"Who's Jake? And why did it make Roland go so… distant, when you said that name?"

John considered this for a moment. It was better than thinking about the white-hot pain shooting up his arm from the pressure on his burnt hand.

"Not really my story, is it?" he concluded, when the wheelchair had thudded down on the other side of the boulder and Eddie was helping Susannah back into it. "I mean, John Wayne there, he's the strong silent type, isn't he? But I probably shouldn't have gone rooting around in his memories anyway, even if he was trying to do it to me, and I'm _definitely_ not sharing out what I learnt there. It's like the difference between… oh, I don't know. Like the difference between… between seeing somebody naked and taking photos of it. Make sense?"

"I guess so." She shrugged as they started out again. "He'll tell us when he's ready, is that what you mean?"

"Something like that. Sure you don't want me to take over for a bit, Eddie?"

"Don't start, John."

"Fair enough."

**5**

They had been walking for five days, and John's leg was starting to make ominous clicks with every step, when at last they reached the top of a hill that looked like every other hill, and Eddie whooped.

"Hey! Roland! John! Take a look at _this_!"

Susannah, who was clinging onto his back again, rested her chin on his shoulder and sighed with relief. "Oh, thank God," she said fervently. "Thank _God_."

"Fantastic," John added brightly, staggering up alongside them. "Wonderful. The salad bar is officially open. If they'd install a pub around here, it'd be even better."

Roland said nothing, but as he lurched over, leaning heavily on Eddie, he smiled.

Together, they stood on the rocky cusp of a barren hill, and looked down at salvation. A tangle of weeds, stretched thin over the rocks, fell down in a curtain of grey-green and yellow on the opposite bank of the valley, clinging onto the sheer rock like reluctant climbers. Hardly dinner at the Ritz, John thought, grinning. But, looking over at Eddie's hands, where the sores of malnutrition were cracking at the skin, and considering the growling explosions the Keflex had brought on in his belly, he'd rather have those than a meal for twenty at a steak house.

And he'd _much_ rather have slutgrass and weeds than he would lobster.

Right now, though, he was fairly sure the only way he would get down that hillside would be by falling. Sighing, he sat down heavily, deftly rescued the dogend from behind his ear, and lit up (an operation which remained the only thing he could reliably do left-handed). "Well, end's in sight now, kiddos. Time for a break while the thought's still fresh."

"John!" Eddie protested, but he was too happy at the sight to be really irritated at anything. Lifting Susannah down next to him, he collapsed against a rock, next to the Englishman.

"Want a fag?" was John's only answer. "Come on, it's a celebration. We might not have a fatted calf – if we did, we wouldn't be so fucking buggered up – but we'll make do, right? So, want one?" Grinning, he reached into the sling-bag made from the remains of his coat, pulled out his current half-empty packet of cigarettes, and proffered them to Eddie first, then Susannah.

"I don't smoke," she said, and gave him an almost apologetic smile.

"That kind of thing's fucked me over too many times before," Eddie put in, shaking his head.

"Oh, fair enough. More for me." John grinned wider, took a long drag of the dogend in his mouth, and examined his hand. More than a fortnight from the battle on the beach, it was still blistered and raw, but the skin was starting to grow back, and, although it hurt like hell, he could close a complete fist – which was a significant improvement. The scar tissue was raw and purplish, and threatened to fuck up his hand movement, he realised, if he wasn't very careful. His broken arm was still, well, broken, and it still throbbed with every step he took, but it had turned out to be less badly fractured than he had thought, the bandages Eddie had put around it to hold the bone in place seemed to be holding – although the journey this far hadn't done it much good – and the bone was beginning, slowly but surely, to knit itself together. Even his leg, under the span-wide hole in his jeans, was starting to sort itself out.

He could have felt pretty satisfied with the way things were going, if only his coat had started regenerating along with his body.

"So, once we're out of this shithole, where are you going?" he asked idly after a moment. "I mean, what's this Tower bullshit all about?"

Silence, just long enough to be uncomfortable. Roland, perched on a rock a few feet away, stared at the expressionless sky, and said nothing.

After a moment, Eddie cleared his throat. "Way I understand it," he began hesitantly, glancing at the expressionless gunslinger as though seeking approval, "it's what holds the universe together."

"I thought that was sheer bloody-minded stupidity," John muttered, scratching at his bearded chin, and sighed. "So, it holds the universe together. Let's assume that's right. Still doesn't explain why you feel the need to go and fuck around with it."

"I will climb to the top," Roland said, without turning around. His voice was grating and rough. "The top of the Dark Tower. What do you suppose dwells there, Constantine? I will climb to the top, and I will question the Creator, if there is one, and I will find out the reasons, if there are reasons. That is my quest. That is what I seek."

John considered this. It sounded heroic. It sounded romantic.

It sounded, in short, bloody stupid.

He laughed. "Jesus Christ, you are one hell of an idiot, Deschain. Even if there _is_ a Creator, why the hell would he want to talk to _you_? Odd thing about gods and demons and suchlike, you know… omnipotent, omniscient beings tend not to have much truck with diplomatic negotiation. Especially not with us human losers." Still flexing his burnt hand, he clicked his neck thoughtfully from side to side. "If you find the Dark Tower, if you get to the top, he'll throw you out on your arse like the bouncer for the celestial nightclub. Then what? Start all over again?"

Roland narrowed his eyes, but didn't turn his head.

"If I must."


End file.
